


Next Door Neighbor

by angelblack3



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Dark Sherlock, Infidelity, M/M, Slow Build, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-14 12:42:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 55,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4565094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelblack3/pseuds/angelblack3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is trying to find happiness. In a tedious job and a stagnant marriage, that's a lot harder than he had thought it would be. Then a mysterious boy arrives to the school, and John Watson finally feels alive again, but it comes with an unseen and terrible price.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Who starts too many projects for her own good? This girl! 
> 
> Disclaimer: John is going to be the older partner in this relationship, but Sherlock will be eighteen. All of my knowledge of the British school system comes from the internet and blind guessing, and Sherlock will continue to be three of my favorite things: dark, the 'top', and unhealthily obsessed with John.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

John stirred his coffee in silence. The clank of the spoon against the ceramic rang loudly in the empty kitchen. He thought about putting on some music, but he didn’t want to wake Mary. She’d worked a long shift last night, and he didn’t want to find out if they could fake some semblance of normalcy this morning.

He’s not certain he can stand another morning of shammed pleasantries. The genial words of ‘how did you sleep’ and ‘is there any more coffee left’ before they just sit across from each other, with an empty quiet hanging thickly in the air between them. 

It didn’t use to be like that. Their silences were once companionable and comfortable ones. They were briefly interspersed with flashes of quick jokes and thoughts on their plans for the day, mixed with both of them shambling about for breakfast and coffee, with a healthy dose of giving each other loving glances over mugs or across newspapers and quick kisses before heading out the door. Then somewhere along the way, that contentment dried up like a riverbed caught in the middle of a drought. 

They’re certainly not hostile to one another, but the steadfast indifference that they’ve both been feeling for some time cuts almost as deeply. John isn’t sure when this began, but it’s happened all the same. 

To put it plainly, John and his wife don’t love each other. 

John sighed deeply before he tossed his spoon into the sink and gulped down coffee that was barely below scalding. He dumped the rest of it down the drain, and made sure to rinse out the coffee pot before heading out the door. 

John really wished, for the thousandth time, that he could figure out when it had begun to deteriorate. Perhaps he could rekindle their marriage, if only he knew the exact moment it all went wrong. Although, he bitterly and honestly thought, he’d be better off wishing for a time machine, to stop his fool of a younger self from going off to war. 

John remembered meeting Mary during medical school, and how promising and rewarding that had been. They’d both been young, but self-assured in their futures. He was studying to be a surgeon, and she wanted to be a nurse. 

They’d flirt and fight as much as any couple, interspersed with great sex when they both weren’t hung over or exhausted. They’d mutually noticed a difference from the other future doctor/nurse couples. The fact that they stuck around long enough to learn each other’s names, for one, and that Mary and John loved flirting with danger.

John wasn’t sure if they could be qualified as adrenaline junkies back then. They were certainly never stupid enough to jump away from oncoming trains for a quick rush, but neither did they hesitate when things went tits up. 

Every person in the medical field has to have a level head to some extent. You can’t enter into a profession where you’re always working at top performance without being inclined towards a certain lifestyle. Regardless, the two of them had always loved it a little more, had always grinned a little sharper by the end of an eighteen hour shift. Being forced to save lives one after the other like the world’s most macabre assembly line didn’t deter them, it _spurred_ them. 

After England’s announcement of its alliance with America in the Afghanistan War, Mary had barely batted an eyelash when John had said he was enlisting. She understood John’s insatiable need to help people, as well as the satisfaction of aiding a fallen comrade immediately and often. She’d told him to be careful, and he’d better not step on an IED, because she’d never forgive him if she was forced to create some kind of Frankenstein monster for a boyfriend.

He’d proposed to her that night, after they’d made desperate love to each other. 

Mary had accepted, but refused to marry him until he got back. “For further incentive to not get shot,” she had explained, grinning to mask the wet sheen in her eyes as they’d stood together at the airport. 

He’d gotten shot.

As he’d gotten off the plane, John hadn’t been able to hide the way months of blood and bullets had weathered his face as much as a scorching desert sun. Since Mary didn’t try to stop her face from crumbling in overjoyed relief at the sight of him, John called it even.

They’d found a parishioner at the tiny airport chapel within two hours. 

After that, John had tried the slow and agonizing acclimation into civilian life. He went to miserable therapy session after miserable therapy session, where he’d stared at a clock, counting down the minutes until he could go home to Mary. His therapist had termed it ‘anchoring’, meaning that he was finding something in life that was worth waking up for every day. Something that was worth fighting off the midnight screaming, the hot knives in his shoulder every time it rained, and the humiliating physical therapy for a shattered shoulder and a leg that wasn’t broken.

Seeing her by his side, with a beautiful gold band on her left hand after he’d saved for months, with laughter lines around her eyes and that devilishly crooked grin, he’d often ask her what he would’ve done without her. 

She’d often reply, “Probably wander around London like a limping puppy until I finally found you.” He’d laugh, retort with something playfully protesting or mildly self-deprecating, and then kiss her.

John stopped going to the sessions after his therapist had warned him that he was placing too much value on domestic life. That he needed to work on what life outside of the military and his wife was going to be like. 

But he didn’t need anything else. He had Mary, and he could work locum jobs until he found something more stable. He didn’t need the thrill of exploding sand or even a critical patient relying on his expertise to feel alive. As long as he had Mary, everything would be fine.

As it turned out, if you have a tremor in your left hand and a cane in the other, it didn’t matter how good your references were. For a while they tried to keep their perfect apartment in London, but eventually they couldn’t stretch their wallets any farther.

They were forced to do something they’d sworn they’d never do. Move to the suburbs.

It was cheaper in the long run to pay off a housing loan, and they were both assured that John’s credentials could get him nearly any job where that kind of education was lauded.

“It’ll be good,” Mary had said as they did everything but wave goodbye to that beautiful and disgusting city, “fresh air and new people. It’ll be good for us.” 

They’d gotten settled in to a house that was almost a mansion, compared to their apartment, with two whole separate floors and even a porch. John had insisted that Mary needn’t bother with finding a place that was handicap accessible.

“I’ve got a limp, Mary, not a stump. I’ll manage just fine.” Mary got that tiny frown between her eyebrows every time he said that, and made sure their bedroom was on the ground floor. John pretended not to notice, and tried his hardest to never feel ashamed about the unused master bedroom on the second floor.

Mary had gotten a job as a nurse almost immediately, and much to their surprise, found out that the town was overstocked in local and beloved doctors. The only place that had any vacancy for John’s expertise was the college. 

It certainly wasn’t ideal, but it was the best they could do, and they had each other. 

John always wondered if it was the absence of London, the tedium of snotty teens, or even the sucking silence of a peaceful neighborhood that destroyed their relationship. It was probably all three. 

As John pulled into his parking space, he remembered how they had both desperately tried to stay stable as their relationship sucked them steadily downwards like quicksand. 

Talking about things had been a disaster, since John didn’t blame either of them for their current predicament. He was upset at life and how everything had been fitting together as well as a jigsaw puzzle with the pieces filed away. He couldn’t put that on either of them, when he was trying so damned hard to make _this_ his life now. Getting everything out in the open just left a sour taste in both of their mouths, since there was fuck all they could do about it. 

Trying to spice up their sex lives had gone equally tits up. Their sex was, well, not mediocre, but it was missing that encompassing passion it had before they’d gotten married. Adding sex toys and different positions only made things as interesting as they were exhausting.

They’d briefly brought up the prospect of swinging, but that had been quickly shot down by both of them. John couldn’t picture himself with another woman any more than he could stomach the thought of Mary with a strange man, and she had felt the same.

So they were stuck in a bleak limbo, both of them knowing that their marriage was fixable. That if only they could pinpoint the issue, and deal with it like adults, they’d both be stronger for it. 

But there wasn’t an immediate and obvious solution to their problems. No matter how either of them tried to bridge the sudden chasm between the both of them, it just seemed to grow wider. 

With that dreary thought clinging to his mind, John shut the door to his shared car and stepped inside of his workplace. 

He was slightly later than the ringing of the first period, which meant he blessedly didn’t have to make small talk in the teacher’s lounge. He doubted he’d be brought up for arriving later than any other teacher in the building, since most kids didn’t get ‘sick’ until at least midday. 

Walking into his own tiny doctor’s office, John wondered why this school even bothered with its own doctor. Most of the kids here were rich enough to have their own family physician. It was probably a section on the brochures John never read.

‘Enroll your child at Gladstone Academy and take comfort that our staff is as caring and professional as you’, or some other such bollocks. 

The thought brought a whisper of a smile on his lips, and he startled when a timid voice said, “Good thoughts then?” 

He jerked up in his seat, torn from his paperwork to look at his assistant’s wide eyes. She backed up quickly saying, “Sorry! Sorry! Didn’t mean to startle you!”

John huffed and gave her a wan smile “It’s alright Molly, just didn’t hear you come in.” 

Molly awkwardly smiled back at him, and went over to make herself some coffee for something to do. 

“So,” Molly tried again, holding the styrofoam cup between them like a shield, “having a good morning?”

John hummed noncommittally. He felt like more than a bit of a prick for blocking her attempts at conversation, but as much as he didn’t want to talk about his life, there also wasn’t very much to say. 

“Ah, same old same old then,” Molly said, as she filled the air with her strained laugh and the scrape of the spoon against her cup, “don’t worry, I’m sure something interesting will happen to you soon.”

John paused in signing his name to look up in bewilderment at her, “Excuse me?”

Molly blinked at him, and then her face glowed in embarrassment, “Oh, god. I didn’t mean-I’m not saying you’re boring. I mean, I sort of just said it there, haha, but that’s not what I meant, originally. I was just-“ 

She took a gulp of coffee to get herself to stop talking, and then spluttered when the searing liquid hit her tongue. John pushed his chair back, but Molly waved her hand at him to get him to sit back down. 

“God! Sorry, sorry,” she set down her cup to wipe at her mouth with a napkin. After she had collected herself, she tried again, “What I was trying to say, was that I know it’s not the most riveting thing, working here.”

She looked at the ground, refusing to meet his eyes as she explained herself, “All of the staff knows that you were in the military. And this probably isn’t a step up, you know, from that kind of life. Not that-“ her head jerked up to him then, her big brown eyes earnest, “war is preferable! Or anything! I just, you know, kind of see you shambling about a lot,” her eyes went back down to a spot on the floor. 

“And I thought, you know, that you just needed a reminder. That nothing ever really stays the same. So even if things seem kind of…mundane now, I’m sure it won’t last long.” 

She bit her lip, as if she wanted to say more, but was afraid that she would ignite the sprinkling array of gunpowder that had become her words. 

As her feet startled to shuffle, Molly wondered if maybe she should just leave and finally use a sick day before John said, “Thank you, Molly.”

She looked up at him, surprise looking far better on her round face than awkward fear. 

John smiled at her, a genuine one that lit up the tired shadows of his face, “I appreciate the sentiment, no matter how, ah, bluntly it was put.” 

Molly saw that he was teasing her in a gentle way that wasn’t meant to emphasize her shame, and giggled softly. 

She pushed a lock of hair behind her ear and said, “Well, I’d better, uh, go find some way to make myself busy, before I put my foot in it again.” 

John smiled as the school nurse closed the door behind her, but it left his face as soon as the silence of the room pressed against him.

Her original statement flittered across his mind, and he softly said to no one, “Except that nothing happens to me.”


	2. Chapter 2

John didn’t expect much to happen today, just like he didn’t expect much to happen every other day. Maybe one or two would come in legitimately ill every fortnight, but for the most part John saw kids looking to skip out early with written permission from the school doctor. 

So when a rail-thin teenager came waltzing in holding a red soaked tissue up to his face, and a deep bruise quickly swelling his left eye, John hoped that no one would blame him for being so startled. 

“What the hell!” John’s words escaped before he remembered to use appropriate language. He dropped the supplies he’d been sorting to quickly dart to the small freezer where he kept a rarely used ice compress for rugby sprains.

The teen wordlessly hopped up onto the bed and gingerly placed the compress over his eye without instruction. John handed him a few more tissues while apologizing, “Unfortunately I don’t really have anything to immediately stop the bleeding. Just keep pressure on your sinuses for now.” 

The teen nodded. It seemed closer to a gesture of swatting away flies with his wildly unkempt hair rather than an indication that he was paying attention to John’s words. As the teenager held both compress and tissues over his face, John finally noticed the evidence of a fist fight. 

He’d mistaken it for more smeared blood, but the cuts on the boy’s knuckles were distinguishable against his pale skin. As John turned around to get the bandages and antiseptic cream he asked, “So why aren’t your attackers in here too?”

He turned back around to catch a quick flash of interest and surprise on the boy’s face before he was asked, “What makes you think that I didn’t instigate?”

The word ‘instigate’ was quite a funny word to hear underneath a stream of blood and a wad of tissue, but John didn’t bring attention to it. 

He answered, “Besides the defensive wounds on your hands, I hardly doubt that you would get that bad of a black eye if you were expecting someone to retaliate. From the looks of things, someone hit you straight in the face.”

John gently took the hand that was holding the tissue paper. The bleeding didn’t continue, so John began clinically applying the disinfectant to Sherlock’s cuts. He said, “I’d be surprised if your other eye didn’t get some faint bruising tomorrow from all of the broken vessels. No one gets a hit like that unless it’s a surprise. So even if you did do or say something that would compel someone to hit you, you clearly didn’t throw the first punch.”

John looked up from smearing gel onto the kid’s knuckles, to meet the palest eyes he’d ever seen. Their unexpected intensity jolted through him, but all he did was calmly grab the bandages.

“That’s surprisingly astute of you,” said the kid who really needed to lay off of the hard sibilant sounds, or John was going to lose his composure, “what else?”

John blinked in confusion, before he realized that the boy wanted to know what else John could make of his wounds. 

Feeling strangely scrutinized John went, “Uh, well.” John leaned back a little bit, to see if there really was anything else that could be taken from this besides the fact that the teenager still hadn’t said what happened to his attacker, or why he was attacked in the first place.

What John saw made his eyes narrow. He insisted, “You really should go to the Head after we’re done here. I already didn’t like it when I thought it was just one other kid, but teaming up against someone is unacceptable.” He finished wrapping the bandage around the boy’s hand, efficiently tying it off.

John refrained from leaning away when it felt like he was being scanned by laser beams. John quickly explained, “Your clothes are ripped along the seam of your shoulder. You had to tear away from someone holding you back.” 

John put away his supplies in order to occupy himself. Inwardly, he was embarrassed at how weirdly flustered this kid was making him. How did someone looking at him make him so damned uncomfortable?

“So, why aren’t they here with you then? Your knuckles are broken enough that they’re probably as bad off as you are, if not worse,” John feigned calm admirably. He wasn’t sure what he would do with the kid’s response. John didn’t like bullies, but he can’t pretend he doesn’t know that there are other wounded kids somewhere out there. 

The kid responded, “They ran off after I proved I could hold my own in a brawl. They might’ve also been afraid of someone strolling by, and they couldn’t claim that they were the innocent parties, since it was indeed two against one. And if I brought the same evidence that you just described to light, then disciplinary actions against them would have to be taken, regardless of their privileges.”

“Privileges?” John turned around just as the boy was taking away the compress from his face. Dried blood still clung to his nose and the top of his lip, and John felt a flicker of… _something_ go through him at the sight. On literally anyone else on the planet, the sight of dried blood and a blackening eye would be pitiful at best and humiliating at worst. For some reason it just made this young man look subduedly feral. 

The boy gave him another searching look, like he was waiting for John to figure out the answer to his own question. And John does, because there’s only one way that bullies would get away with wailing on a classmate in a school as regulated as this one.

“They’re rich, or, well, richer,” John amended, “but even if they have wealth they can’t duck the fact that they’ve just beat up one kid.”

“I’m not a _kid_ ,” said the boy with a great amount of disdain, “and I imagine that their reluctance to come forward has to do more with the fact that I fought back, rather than the slight possibility of this hopeless staff actually doing anything useful.” 

John can’t hold back the smirk from his avid objection of being called a child, but he managed to hide it behind a raised hand to his mouth to cover up a sudden yawn. Honestly, the word doesn’t seem to apply here at all. Children, kids, teenagers, they’re innocent and awkward, or conceited and foolish. This one, he oozes confidence and intelligence. John’s certain that he’s got a proud streak miles long, but it’s not without merit. 

“So does that mean that you’re going to tell someone who did this? They’ll hardly be able to get away with it.”

The boy just rolled his eyes, put the compress down on the paper sheeting, and stood up to go use the sink.

“Why would I,” he ran the tap and splashed water on his face, careful not to upset his sinuses, “even if they did face some form of punishment, they’d only seek me out again for retribution.”

“You can’t just let them get away with it though,” John protested. He had the sinking feeling he was being lumped into the boy’s rather unmerciful category of ‘useless staff’, “just because you’re worried about them coming back for a second round doesn’t mean they should get to walk away.” 

The boy stopped toweling off his face to look at John with a raised eyebrow, “Did you forget your own assumption that I gave them as much, if not worse, of a beating as they gave me? Besides, the anticipation of them getting into trouble will keep them occupied for at least several weeks, before their dull minds catch on that I haven’t told anyone anything.” 

John frowned, “Then, what, you just expect that they won’t try again out of gratitude?”

The boy scoffed, “Don’t be absurd. It’s merely a matter of preferable scenarios. I’m either granted a few days of reprieve due to some asinine punishment, quickly followed by an inconvenient and vengeful meeting. Or I engineer a few weeks of steady anxiety, which may or may not be followed by another brawl, depending on how much they want to test their luck at finding a silent target.” 

John blinked in shock, before a helpless chuckle escaped him, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard a kid call a couple of bullies ‘inconvenient’ before.”

The boy had a mixture of a scowl and a smile on his face, which did very odd things indeed to his features, “I’ve already told you I’m not a child, don’t make me repeat myself.”

“Sorry, sorry,” John genuinely said, trying to wave away his mirth, “it’s just that this is quite possibly the oddest situation I’ve ever been in.”

“And you’ve been to Afghanistan.”

_That_ made John’s residual humor evaporate like mist under a sun. 

“What…how do you know that?” John asked in shock.

“I don’t know, I notice,” the boy said as if it was simplicity itself for him to speak about John’s service, “your hair’s obviously grown out a bit, but you still keep it short. This doesn’t automatically suggest military, but it’s aided by your stance and your cane. The evidence also comes from the army issued medical kit you keep as a reminder on top of your desk, which I saw when I came in. It could have been bought, but usually someone who buys something like that keeps it at home as part of a collection at best and decoration at worst.” 

“That you have it here, where there is plenty of medical supplies in neat little cabinets, suggests that you’re used to carrying around provisions in a quick transportable item. Old habits, especially ones that were often the factors of yours or a stranger’s survival, are hard to break. Despite your leg you’re ready for combat at a moment’s notice, even though that the most excitement you’ll see here is a young _man_ with a bleeding nose and a recalcitrant disposition.” 

The boy tossed his soiled towel into the wastebasket, carefully not looking at John the entire time. He went over to one of the many aforementioned tidy cabinets and started stuffing bandages and antiseptic into his pockets. 

“Don’t mind me, I surmise that you won’t want to treat someone who can so disconcertingly unravel another person like that, so I’ll just be taking these for a future date and-“

“That was incredible,” John breathed.

The young man stopped looting medical supplies to look at John in unabated surprise, “Really?”

“Yes, absolutely. You really…that was all because of my kit and my—“John cut himself off from saying cane. He realized that, ever since this strange boy had walked into his infirmary, he hadn’t been using it. It was unobtrusively propped up against the wall, where he’d last put it.

“Ah, yes,” the boy’s voice suddenly sounded rather abashed, “that was the other thing I’d meant to point out. Your limp is psychosomatic. Which, as a certified surgeon, you probably already know but haven’t been able to cure. I suspect it’s to do with adrenaline and the subsequent loss of it due to a repetitive lifestyle, but it’s dangerous to jump to conclusions without sufficient data.”

Judging by his tone, and what the boy could deduce from a few cursory glances, John suspected that he had all the data he needed, but was trying to be awkwardly humble about it. 

“What’s your name?” John asked without addressing his miraculously ‘healed’ leg. 

It took a while for him to respond, but finally the young man said, “Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.” 

“And have you been here for a while Sherlock?”

John asked because he felt certain that he should have heard about him before meeting him, but the name didn’t ring a bell. As sharp as he was, Sherlock should have been the main gossip of the teacher’s break room. This was the kind of young adult who grew up to invent cancer cures or new atomic bombs. 

“I’ve just moved here yesterday,” Sherlock said it as if it should have been obvious. And perhaps it would have been to him.

“Right…well…welcome to the neighborhood,” and John immediately felt like a blithering idiot. Who says that as a proper form of greeting or welcome or whatever he’s trying to-

He’s cut off from his self-deprecation when Sherlock abruptly started laughing. He laughed like it startled him, like he was unsure of what to do with these new facial muscles and expansions in his diaphragm. 

He laughed hard enough that his nose started to bleed again. John fumbled for some more tissues, handing them over while he asked with a bemused grin, “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock tried to breathe around the word, which sent him off into more giggles, “it’s just, ‘welcome to the neighborhood’. While I’m all-” he gestured at his face, at the eye that was well and truly swollen now, and the dripping blood. 

John caught on to what Sherlock meant and started to blush. He would have felt more like an insensitive prat about his perpetual ability to have his foot firmly lodged in his mouth, if Sherlock wasn’t giggling like he’d been told something actually comedic. 

John felt his own rueful smile force its way onto his face, and pretty soon he was laughing right along with this strange boy.

“Yes, well,” John tried again, “hopefully this didn’t ruin your first impression entirely.”

Sherlock huffed derisively at that, “If it wasn’t the thick fools that take violent exception to being called as such, it’d be the mind-numbing monotony that would’ve spoiled this town’s ‘oh so delightful’ prospects.” 

John made a disbelieving noise, “Monotonous? I thought you said you’d only been here for a day.”

“Yes, and already I’ve been practically bombarded with the new ways to cause torturous boredom. Not a large enough community for an underbelly, not small enough that everyone knows how to keep a secret from one another. You should hear how the teachers yap on when they don’t notice anyone in their immediate line of sight.”

John squashed down the urge to ask him what he meant by that. Part of it was morbid curiosity of what everyone gossips about when the army doctor isn’t around, another was that he wanted to hear Sherlock display that amazing ability again. The way he could connect such tiny things into one cohesive but complex picture, and then talk about it like it was as simple as dressing yourself, was still boggling John’s mind. 

Instead he sought to reign in the boy’s ego a little bit. Even if he can already tell that’s a laughably feeble task.

“Surely there must be something here. You can’t have gone over the entire town in just one day and deemed it unworthy,” John wryly said. 

Sherlock made another dismissive noise, and hopped up onto the paper lined bed for a comfortable seat. It occurred to John that he hadn’t asked Sherlock for his parent’s phone number, or even told him to head home for the day. 

John knows he should do those things. The boy’s just been in a fight. Even if he could clearly take care of himself, sending him on his way is the smart and responsible thing to do. For some reason John wants to stay in his company a little longer. Besides, it didn’t look like Sherlock planned to leave anytime soon. 

“C’mon,” John encouraged, “this place has loads of stuff you haven’t been able to try yet. Museums, theatres, restaurants. There’s got to be something that can occupy that mind of yours.” 

Instead of retorting or begrudgingly admitting anything, the teenager simply gave him a very odd look. Several moments of awkward silence passed, and John was about to ask if he’d said something unintentionally offensive.

Sherlock cleared his throat before he could, “Dr. Watson, while I find your straightforwardness rather refreshing, if not untoward, you should know that this would be a liaison beyond illicit proportions and quite frankly, you should reign in those sorts of ideas before you get sacked as you seem to be the only competent--”

“Whoah!” John shouted, lowering his voice immediately lest someone overhear at literally the worst moment, “woah. Sherlock, for god’s sake. No. Christ, no. I’m not-I’m married,” John held up his hand and then immediately set it back down, “course you probably already saw that and just thought I was an adulterer on top of a creep. God, okay, just keep ice on your face for a while and please never speak of this to anyone. Meanwhile let’s never talk again, okay, thanks, then.”

John tried turning away to uselessly shuffle about and give the boy time to run far away, but he stopped short when a hand gently fell on his arm.

He looked up into Sherlock’s swollen and apologetic face as the boy said, “I saw the ring, but it’s hard to parcel out sentiment over a past relationship or attachments to a current one. And I was _joking_.” 

John blinked at him slowly, and then he slumped away in relief. After he’d gathered his senses from the floor he said, “I’m starting to see why you were punched on your first day here.” 

Sherlock grinned at him, and John smiled back.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock left the infirmary long after John insisted on it. The boy had stalled for time by entertaining John with stories that careless teachers had let slip, along with more stunning deductions based on things like a coworker’s tan line or a student’s scuffed trainer. At John’s every murmured ‘fantastic’ or ‘incredible’, his face seemed to brighten a little more. 

But John had to finish his paperwork and Sherlock had a nose to keep from swelling. John eventually got Sherlock to promise to keep his face iced under threat of a swift kick to the pants. It wasn’t until he sat back at his desk, with a huge grin on his face, that he realized he hadn’t gotten the contact information for Sherlock’s parents. He considered looking for his file for an emergency contact, but since Sherlock was on his way home, they’d surely find out soon enough. The boy didn’t seem to be the type that liked it when anyone, well-meaning professional adults or no, took away any aspect of his control. John decided he’d call Sherlock’s home tomorrow, to be certain he was taking care of the injury properly.

By the time John was done with his shift and nearing home, the novelty of the day had worn away. He felt absolutely ridiculous. What was he doing, getting such an entertaining and almost fulfilling experience from a whip smart teenager? Was he really that desperate for something different in his life? 

As he pulled into his driveway, the initial excitement of telling Mary about his day had eroded into an awkward uncertainty. Should he really talk to his wife about an amazing kid that had jump started months of bleakness? 

He walked through the front door and called out to Mary. He heard his voice gently sweep through the house. She would probably be working a late shift again. She’d been picking up a lot of those lately.

John leaned on his cane a little heavily as he made his way to the bedroom. Sherlock’s words of his limp being psychosomatic echoed through him. He sat down on the edge of the bed with the cane leaning against the side. 

He thought about all of the pitying looks he got in the shops. He thought of the way people respectfully moved out of his way in the halls. He thought of the x-rays that hadn’t shown anything wrong with his leg, yet it still ached enough for it to be an integral part of him. The image of the unused master bedroom upstairs flashed through his mind.

With a surge of determination, John lifted himself to his feet. He strode towards the kitchen to make some tea, deliberately not looking at the stick of metal growing in distance behind him. He got as far as the bedroom doorway before he crumpled against the frame in a flash of pain. 

Frustration bubbled hot and clinging in the back of his throat. John had an urge to punch the wall until his knuckles bled, but a knock on his front door intercepted his urge for pointless violence. John leaned against the wall, drawing in long breaths through his nose. It didn’t calm the angry buzzing in his head. 

Another and more insistent knock tore through the last of his calm, “In a minute!” John shouted.

He limped back to the bed, grabbed his cane, and strode towards the door that was once again knocked upon. 

John prepared himself to take out every petty grievance on the poor bastard on the other side of the door, but the words lodged in his throat when he flung it open. 

“Oh,” Sherlock said, “this is surprising.” 

John blinked up at him. Since Sherlock didn’t disappear after his eyes closed, he stared at the boy’s face. The deep line of indigo underneath his lid could almost be mistaken for ink if not for the slightly puffy look about it.  
The underside of his nose was still raw from wiping away the blood, and looking down, John saw the bandages covering Sherlock’s knuckles. Over all he looked a mess, but certainly not as bad as he could have been if he hadn’t been tended to. This was great news, but it didn’t explain why Sherlock was at his front door, looking a little impatient now that the shock had worn away. 

When John managed to pick up his sense from the floor he asked, “What are you-”

Sherlock brushed past him and stepped inside, “Perhaps fortuitous is the better word. I need your sugar. That’s what neighbors do right? Lend each other baking ingredients without expectation of reciprocation?” 

“Neighbors?” John repeated. He watched as Sherlock headed into his kitchen. John belatedly followed when he heard cupboards being opened and slammed shut. 

“Sherlock,” he entreated when the boy made no move to acknowledge his slow shuffle into the kitchen, “What are you doing here? And why are you in my kitchen?”

“I’m here for your sugar. Do keep up Dr. Watson.” Sherlock found the tub where they stored the loose sugar, and pulled out a glass beaker from a pocket inside of his ridiculously long coat. He began measuring the crystals, completely ignoring John’s increasingly irritated state. 

“Why are you in _my_ kitchen for _my_ sugar? You know there’s a corner shop down the road right?”

“Your house was closer. And to be fair, I didn’t know it was your residence until just now.”

“So you just knocked on a random stranger’s door for sugar? Rather than walk and purchase your own?”

“Not a stranger’s door,” Sherlock huffed, “a neighbor’s. I’ve been told this is something normal, people,” Sherlock waved his hand in a vague encompassing gesture, “do.” 

John blinked when everything slotted together, “You live next to me?”

“Good God,” Sherlock bemoaned, “is idiocy contagious? Did this town sink its claws into you within the last few hours? Yes, I live next to you. I have since I’ve moved here, which was approximately thirty-two hours ago. Now that you’re all caught up, do you mind if I also borrow some of your vinegar?”

“Why are you raiding my kitchen?” John was close to throwing his hands up in frustration, “Are you pilfering for groceries because you can’t be asked to do your own shopping?”

“No,” Sherlock drawled, “I’m testing the various combustive capabilities of household items.”

John sputtered, “Just how much combustion are you hoping to accomplish?” When he’d thought Sherlock had a brain capable of massive destruction, he had hoped Sherlock was less inclined towards incendiaries and more towards resolutions for world hunger.

Sherlock shrugged, “That’s the purpose of the experiment.”

John sighed. He wasn’t going to try to talk Sherlock out of his goal, he wasn’t the boy’s father. Still, “I hope you have enough sense to do it outdoors at least.” John took quite a bit of satisfaction out of Sherlock’s offended look and barreled on, “And sugar won’t have a combustible effect with vinegar.”

“I know that,” Sherlock groused, “the sugar is for my tea. Though thank you for your rudimentary attempt at a chemistry lesson.” The snide remark was dulled by his lengthy contemplation over John’s box of PG Tips. 

John crossed his arms, ready to use his Captain voice. Experimentation in the name of science was all well and good, but one does not barge into another’s house and steal their tea. He stopped himself at the sight of Sherlock’s clear hesitation in adding the teabags to his tiny pile of pilfered goods. The boy’s face was twisted in indecision, and the sudden uncertainty drew John up short.

“Sherlock,” John questioned, “you do have groceries of your own, right?”

The boy set the box down with slightly more force than necessary. He said, “Apologies for the intrusion, I’ll be on my way.” He strode towards the front door, but John was quick to catch up to him, the limp in his leg forgotten. 

“Sherlock, wait,” and oddly enough the teenager listened, although he faced away from John, “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to embarrass you. Is your family struggling for money?” 

John knew it really wasn’t any of his business, but if the kid was looking longingly at tea bags and trying to skip off with free sugar, surely he could try to help in some way? Sherlock’s derisive snort dispelled any assumptions that it was a matter of his parents’ financial straits. 

John’s face twisted with the anger beginning to take root as assumptions swirled in his head, “Why won’t your parents buy food then?” 

Sherlock looked surprised at John’s angry tone. A small flash of a smile could be seen on Sherlock’s face before he rolled his eyes to feign dismissiveness, “The would if they lived with me.”

“What?” John asked, “What’s a sixteen-year-old doing living alone?”

“Seventeen,” Sherlock corrected, “and it’s due to a…complicated arrangement with my brother.”

John frowned and was ready to press for details before Sherlock waved away any potential questions. “It doesn’t matter. Are you going to accompany me to the shop or did you just want to give me your card?”

“What?” John sputtered.

“Is your vocabulary restricted to one word inquisitive sentences? You were clearly about to assist me in getting food. I was expediting the process.”

“Hold on, I never said I would do that.”

“You didn’t have to; it was practically written all over your body language. Plus, you’ve already demonstrated several instances of a compassionate and generous disposition.” 

John’s face helplessly displayed bemusement. Sherlock was right, he had been about to do some essential shopping with the skinny twig of a kid. That didn’t mean John was above being a prick about it. 

“Maybe I’ve changed my mind,” John shrugged, fighting to keep the teasing smile off of his face.

“Please,” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“A step in the right direction,” John prompted, “since I haven’t been asked like a normal person. Maybe I actually have no idea what you’re talking about.” He nearly tapped his foot in expectation, but decided that would be overdoing it. He wasn’t this boy’s father, he reminded himself. He was just a concerned neighbor, who was helping when it was clearly needed.

Sherlock sighed in exasperation, but John could see the same twitch at the corner of his lips that meant he was also trying not to smile. 

“Doctor Watson,” Sherlock said with exaggerated contriteness, “would you please accompany me to the store to acquire groceries? As I seem to have spent my allotted allowance on chemistry equipment.”

“I’d be delighted,” John said with an ear to ear grin. 

At the shop, it was an entirely new battle to get Sherlock to pay attention. Every other aisle it seemed Sherlock wanted some food or sundry item to test its flammability or other random experiments rather than use it for its intended purpose. Sherlock made up for the headache by airing everyone’s dirty laundry. 

“No way is the father related to that child. More than likely it’s the grocer the wife keeps sharing discretionary glances with.” 

“Six cats and she’s looking adopt a seventh. I pity the poor beasts.”

“Her brother is sleeping with her best friend and they’re keeping it a secret.”

It was hard to choose between chiding Sherlock or doubling over in laughter. Eventually, John had accumulated enough that Sherlock could get by for a few weeks without pilfering through other people’s cabinets. He drew a line at cooking for the boy. 

When they reached the cashier John handed his card over without hesitation. Sherlock watched with open interest. It wasn’t until they were loading the bags in John’s car that he asked, “Why are you helping me?”

John had expected that question, so he responded, “That’s what neighbors do isn’t it? Help each other out?” 

Sherlock snorted in a burst of laughter, “I mean, why are you paying for the groceries of a stranger, when you aren’t in the best of financial circumstances?” John shifted his attention back to the bags, moving stiffly. Sherlock noticed and said, “I apologize. I shouldn’t have brought it up-”

“No, it’s, it’s fine,” John interrupted, “the food isn’t a burden. Mary and I won’t buckle from an extra grocery run. As for you-well,” John rubbed a hand over his nape, stretching his back from bending over, “I know it’s weird to say, but it just didn’t feel right leaving you to your own devices, knowing you’d go hungry.” 

Sherlock looked unsure as to how to respond to that. He shifted on his feet and said, “I would’ve come up with something. I’m not so inept as to let myself starve.”

John chuckled, “Believe me, I know by now that you’re resourceful.” He shut the boot of the car and waited until they pulled out of the lot before he asked the question that had been plaguing his mind.

“So, you’re given an allowance. You live on your own, and you don’t seem to have parents in the picture. At least not ones that are willing to help you.” 

He glanced over at Sherlock to find the boy looking incredibly tense in the passenger seat. John waited a beat before he reassured him, “You don’t have to talk about it. I certainly won’t tell anyone. But even if the law says you can live on your own, it doesn’t seem like something you’ve…chosen.”

Sherlock snorted, “I certainly wouldn’t have moved here, if it had been up to me.”

John let a small smile flicker over his face, “I gathered that, Mr. Scratching-at-the-walls.” 

Nothing else was said until John stopped the car. He moved to get out and help get the food inside, but Sherlock’s words stopped him. 

“I don’t have any parents, not anymore. My brother and I are the only family left,” Sherlock made a noise like he was extremely disappointed and disgusted by that, “and I use the definition of ‘family’ very liberally in his regard. He sent me here to live on my own after I proved to be too…distressed by my parents’ passing. He believed a place away from external stimuli and my usual connections would be beneficial. A ‘fresh start’, if you will,” Sherlock quoted the words with his fingers. Clearly, he had nothing but the utmost respect for his brother and the decisions he made towards Sherlock’s well-being.

“My brother’s occupation and my parent’s insurance means that he’s wealthy enough to rent a house for me to live in alone. He didn’t bother with trying to keep me in a flat.” He gave John a very mischievous grin, “Apparently I’m a hellish neighbor.” 

He shrugged, “And I’m meant to ‘find myself’ or ‘discover my potential’ or some other rubbish until I receive my portion of the inheritance. Which won’t be until I’m eighteen. So, there you are. A rather condensed version my life’s story with some key developing points omitted for time and relevance.” 

Sherlock got out of the car without looking back at John, who had been stunned into silence since the words ‘I don’t have any parents’. He scrambled out of the car. 

The boy was already carrying several bags and he refused to look back. John grabbed the rest and rushed after him. 

“Sherlock, wait.” John finally caught up to him in the kitchen, whose layout was similar to John’s house but with far more chemistry equipment and pungent odors. 

“I-you didn’t have to tell me all of that,” John said hesitantly. Sherlock whirled around with anger burning in his eyes.

“Oh, sorry, was that too informative? ‘Yes, I’d like to know more about you just not the parts that could potentially make me uncomfortable’”, Sherlock mocked. 

“I just meant,” John’s tone was irrefutably sharp. He reigned in his temper, understanding that anyone would feel raw and vulnerable revealing what Sherlock just did, “I just meant, that you didn’t have to reveal everything about yourself to try and justify my doing a good deed. You needed help, Sherlock, and I was willing to give it. But,” and here John struggled to find the right words that wouldn’t sound condescending, “thank you, for telling me what you did. If you need someone to talk to, or to punch your brother in the face if it comes to that, I’m more than up for it.”

Sherlock’s defensive tension drained out of his shoulders. He smiled, most likely at the image of John punching his sibling, and said, “I appreciate the offer.” 

John nodded, glad to have that out of the way. “Now then, let’s find some part of your kitchen that’s not a biohazard and put the groceries away.” 

Sherlock took that to mean that John would be organizing everything while he prattled on about his previous life. He focused a lot of his attention on how insufferable his brother Mycroft was and how it only got worse after their parents’ death. He’d been the top of his class and fully expected to achieve the same here with minimal effort, which wasn’t a surprise to John. 

He had expected Sherlock to stray away from tales of his parents, but it was like a valve had been released. Sherlock went on about his mother had been an award winning mathematician before settling down after getting pregnant. She’d still contributed to the field on and off, and Sherlock owned all of her published journals. His father had been wiser rather than intelligent, and had been the bedrock for a family of tumultuous geniuses. He didn’t give away any information about how his parents had died, and John obviously didn’t press for it.

Sherlock had just finished recounting the time he’d put dissected frogs in Mycroft’s pillowcase, and John was busy getting his breath back from guffawing, when he realized how late it had become. 

“Oh,” John said, “I should be getting back now.” He stood there in the kitchen. 

“Of course,” Sherlock said, and he made no effort to hide the disappointment in his voice.

“Just, you know, remember,” John said, “I’m free to talk to. Whenever you want.”

Sherlock’s expression lightened somewhat, “Very well then. I shall see you tomorrow during class.”

“ _After_ class, Sherlock. You meant after class, right?”

“Of course,” the teenager assured, grinning unashamedly. John matched it with his own smile. 

John left feeling lighthearted enough that he could’ve swung his arms at his sides if he wouldn’t have felt foolish about it. He walked into his house, hearing Mary mill about the kitchen.

“John? You’re home rather late,” she came around the corner, wiping her hands on a towel. “Where were you? I had to make dinner without-”

John wrapped her up in his arms and soundly kissed her. Mary blinked, and pulled back after a few seconds. 

“Well now,” she said, and that familiar grin began to brighten up her face, “hello to you too.”

“I’ve had the weirdest day,” John offered by way of explanation to his improved mood.

“Then I hope you have ones that are practically surreal from now on,” Mary said. John laughed at that, and it made something warm unfold in Mary’s heart as much as John’s, going by her expression.

“Come on then,” Mary encouraged, “what was so strange about today?”

So John told her as he heated up leftovers. By the end of it, he hoped he sounded proud of a young student rather than awestruck. 

His wife was beaming by the end, so he thought he succeeded. “He sounds brilliant! And our new neighbor too, I had no idea. I haven’t even seen so much as a moving van these past few days.”

John thought about that, and also remarked, “That is strange. I guess it came pre-furnished. Sherlock doesn’t seem like the type to pack heavily, so he probably bought whatever he hadn’t packed.” 

Mary nodded absently, clearly already thinking about something else. “I think we should invite him over sometime for dinner. You said he’s bored here already yeah? I’m sure you’re right, and he just needs some friendly faces to talk to.”

John smiled at her, “I think that’s a fantastic idea. I’ll let him know.” It would help, John thought. It would help that Mary wanted to be involved as well, that way he wasn’t the only one who appreciated Sherlock’s genius. 

Mary frowned, noticing something, “Hang on, where’s your cane?”

John was startled, and he looked around for it. Then he remembered he’d left it in the car, chasing after Sherlock. It was Sherlock’s arrival in his office that prompted the first time he’d let that thing go, and then again when he’d unleashed a string of deductions about John’s entire life after five minutes, and finally when he’d been forced to chase the insufferable teenager down to avoid a misunderstanding. 

Several years of physical therapy and unending support from his wife, and it took a strange genius teenager to unlock John from the prison of his own mind.


	4. Chapter 4

For a little while, John didn’t need the cane to walk. He wasn’t about to start signing up for marathons, but the small walks to and from his car without assistance felt like victories. Mary noticed the change and was thrilled by it. 

“I would kiss the reason if it were in front of me,” she had told him, having woken up with him for a quick breakfast. “Seriously, it’s great to see you like this again John. Have you been going to physical therapy without telling me?”

John hadn’t wanted to lie, but he didn’t feel as though he had an alternative. Could he really tell his wife that he suspected his ‘miraculous’ recovery was due to running after their teenage neighbor? It didn’t even make sense to him. 

So he’d told her that he had, in a sense. Online instructional videos during the slow hours of work, that showed him the ways to stretch and bend to build muscle. She’d laughed and said, “Well, as long as they don’t recommend that you shove anything anywhere, I guess we’ll skip going to see a professional.”

It had felt good. More than good, it had felt great to see that humor in her again. 

Even Molly had commented on it when he came in to work, “Oh! Good to see you up and about Doctor Watson! Not that, you were lazy, or anything, beforehand. Erm, here’s your coffee. I’m going to go hide in a broom closet for five minutes.”

John had laughed and told her that wasn’t necessary. Molly had been grateful he understood. After that, they shared stilted small talk while they completed their respective amounts of paperwork. Intermittently she’d leave to go walk the halls, to get some exercise and make sure no one needed any help. 

John knew she was just as antsy about this job as he probably was. It wasn’t easy to find work that you loved. She returned before lunch, and offered to buy his to celebrate his lack of a cane. 

When she left, the empty office seemed oddly loud. 

Sherlock barged into the room without so much as a greeting. His eyes roved over John and his absence of a cane. “Psychosomatic, I did tell you so,” Sherlock said as he hopped up on the examination table. Rather than looking smug, he looked proud.

“Do you ever get tired of saying that?” John asked as he tried to hide his smile. 

“No,” Sherlock said with a touch of confusion, “why would I?”

John didn’t stifle his laugh. “Never mind. Shouldn’t you be in class?”

“It’s my lunch break.”

“The first student lunch isn’t for another ten minutes.” 

Sherlock shrugged, “So I took an early one.” 

Consternation crept into John’s voice, “Sherlock, you can’t just skip classes because you feel like it.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, come on, you aren’t a child.”

“Then don’t try to make me adhere to a juvenile system of following rules and procedures because it’s ‘the way things are done’.” Sherlock quoted with his fingers and an acidic sneer. “I’m missing ten minutes. Unless something truly catastrophic occurs, I doubt it will matter.”

John sighed, but didn’t press it. In a way, Sherlock had a point. Besides, the idea of trying to get Sherlock to behave like a ‘normal’ teenager seemed…stifling somehow. 

“What are you skipping anyway?” John asked. 

“Orchestra.” Sherlock picked at the paper of the table. “Or what passes for it in this wretched school anyway.”

John was taken aback. Students may have been required to take the art courses as part of their curriculum, but he had assumed Sherlock would be more hands on and go with sculpting or painting. “Really? What do you play?”

Sherlock was immediately pulled out of his sulk at being reprimanded, “The violin.” 

John turned towards Sherlock to give him his full attention. Would he ever stop being surprised by this boy? “Any good then?”

Sherlock’s lips twisted with something acerbic to retort with, but he caught John’s teasing look. His smile turned smugger, “I’m very good.” 

“Shame you didn’t bring it with you,” John said, “I would have loved to hear it.”

“Are you familiar with classical works, doctor?”

“Couldn’t tell you Bach from Beethoven,” John answered honestly, “but music is music. I don’t have to fully understand art to appreciate it.”

“Well, clearly you have good taste, since you seem to appreciate my genius.” It was Sherlock’s turn to look teasing. 

John laughed, “Oh my god, you did not just seriously compare yourself to classical symphonies.”

“Of course not Dr. Watson. I’m far more complex,” Sherlock said with a completely straight face. 

John laughed some more, and eventually Sherlock joined in. “I swear, you could out preen a peacock,” John said when his giggles had died down. 

“Please, as if I would need to be as ostentatious,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

For a while, they talked about nothing while John pretended to do paperwork. Even if the topics were about their favorite music (Sherlock called his taste bland and predictable, while John rebutted that at least people could sing to lyrics) or other subjects that they hated (for Sherlock, it was everything that wasn’t chemistry, for John it was literature) it felt nice to have these easy conversations. 

John was amicable, but no one ever liked to address the elephant in the room that was his service or his leg. Mary had once been the person he could turn to about those clinging dark shadows. But she hadn’t been that for him in a long time. 

More than nice, it felt wonderful, to have this easy flow of speech. 

That was when Molly strode in with a bag almost bursting with takeout food. “Sorry, Doctor Watson, I think they forgot to put the fortune cookies in—oh! Hello!”

Sherlock’s large smile slipped away at the sight of her. John moved to help her and said, “Molly, this is Sherlock. Sherlock, this is Molly Hooper, my coworker.”

“Nice to meet you,” Molly politely smiled. Sherlock said nothing. 

John pointedly cleared his throat and Sherlock finally gave a tiny smile back, “Hello. You’re the nurse?”

The question caught the both of them off guard. “Erm, yes,” Molly replied.

“Why would they need two medical professionals to watch over a group of children? Does this place routinely come down with epidemics?” Sherlock almost seemed excited by the idea.

“No, no, nothing like that,” Molly laughed, “it’s just that, you know, it looks nice on the roster to have two professionals on staff. In case one is in an emergency or away on holiday.”

“But John is more than qualified to handle this on his own.” 

“Sherlock!” John reprimanded. 

“What?” Sherlock asked defensively, “I think it’s true.”

John opened his mouth to scold him, but Molly interrupted him, “It’s alright John. I’m actually looking to become a coroner.” She gave no indication of having been offended, but her hands wouldn’t stop passing over each other in nervous energy.

Sherlock’s interest visibly piqued, “Really? Do you have experience working with cadavers?” 

Molly laughed at his obvious interest. John was grateful that she wasn’t disturbed by Sherlock’s question. “Only in the training I received,” she answered, “outside of that and the occasional crime show on the telly, no.” 

John realized this was the first time he’d heard about Molly’s aspirations, and felt guilty for it. He’d been so caught up in his own problems that he’d never stopped to find out more about his coworker. 

Sherlock sighed in disappointment, “A pity. I was hoping to utilize a carcass.” 

Both Molly and John were swept up in asking him follow up questions about that. By the time they were done, John had shared half of his plate with Sherlock, and it was well past the start of the next period. 

“Seriously, Sherlock, off you go. If you’d like I can give you a ride back home after school.” 

Sherlock had thought that an acceptable agreement, and left. Once he was gone, Molly turned to John. 

“So that was the infamous Sherlock?”

“Indeed,” John said as he cleaned up with a small smile, “though I think a few of those rumors were exaggerated.”

“He certainly seemed like a genius to me.”

“Not that,” John dismissed, “the ones about him being a little hellion in the classroom. Sure, he’s sharp as a whip with his words as much as his mind, but some social awkwardness is hardly rare in a teenager.”

Molly considered this. “I don’t know; I feel like it’s more than that. He certainly had a lot to say for just meeting me once.”

John winced, “Okay, that’s fair. He also doesn’t really have a filter; I think we’ll agree to that. But it’s not like he’s being cruel for the fun of it, or thinking up ways to blow the place sky high.” 

She hummed noncommittally. John was willing to press the issue, as he felt oddly defensive for the boy, but Molly quickly changed the subject to something more innocuous.

For the next few days, Sherlock kept that routine. He would come visit John during lunch and then leave for the next period. Sometimes Molly was there, but she often kept to herself after that first time, though she seemed to warm up to Sherlock whenever he asked her questions about her studies in medical school. Though he clearly preferred to engage John in conversation.

They would talk about everything, from John’s time in the military, to pop culture that Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to care about. Then, after a month of habitual meetings and rides home, Sherlock slowly stopped coming.

At first, he just arrived later than the norm. John never drew attention to it, because he didn’t see a good reason to. He took it as a possible good sign that Sherlock was finally becoming interested in his orchestral class.

Then, whenever he did arrive, Sherlock was distant and dodgy. He barely started a conversation anymore, and gave monosyllabic answers when John tried to engage him.

His health was clearly deteriorating. Sherlock didn’t dress in formal attire every day, but the boy clearly had a sense of fashion, and awareness of his appearance, that was becoming lost underneath large hoodies and scuffed sneakers. 

John’s concern overflowed when Sherlock walked into his medical room, and the dark bags under his eyes had become so prominent that he nearly looked like he did when John had first met him. 

“Sherlock,” John asked seriously when the boy slumped into a chair, “are you being bullied again?”

Sherlock jerked in his seat. He seemed to suddenly remember where he was, and shook his head. “I’m fine Doctor Watson. Just some restless nights.”

John did not believe him. He tried to come over to Sherlock’s house, under the pretense of bringing some sleep aids, but Sherlock didn’t answer the door even though his lights were on. 

Over time, Sherlock became increasingly testier, until he nearly bit poor Molly’s head off when she offered him part of her sandwich. That was the last straw for John.

“You can either tell me what’s wrong, or you can stop being a little brat!” John yelled after Molly had fled with her lunch.

“Perhaps you can mind your own business for a change,” Sherlock acerbically retorted, “and stop trying to parent me. It’s embarrassing.” 

“I’m not trying to parent you, Sherlock, I’m trying to look out for you,” John said in frustration. “You clearly haven’t been sleeping, I doubt that what you’ve eaten, if anything, has been good for you, and you refuse to tell me the cause of it. You’re running yourself ragged, and you won’t even tell me why. You won’t even give me a chance to help you.” 

John sighed, and pinched his nose, “Just, will you just please tell me what is going on Sherlock?”

Sherlock was quiet. When John looked up, he thought he saw something like regret on Sherlock’s face, but he couldn’t be certain. 

“I can’t, Doctor Watson. I truly can’t tell you.” He sat in his chair for several more seconds, before he abruptly stood up. “Please tell Miss Hooper that I regret my behavior.” Then he left the room.

John felt his absence suck the life out of the room like a black hole. Frustrated, he kicked over a metal stool. As it clanked to the ground, his leg gave out. John gripped onto a table at the last second to keep himself from collapsing on the floor. 

He felt anger, guilt, and helplessness burn a hole where his recently returned dignity used to be. 

When he got home, once again without Sherlock in the passenger side, he felt wretched. Sherlock had said he couldn’t help in any way, but John thought that was a load of bullshit. He marched up to Sherlock’s door, resolutely left his cane in the car, and knocked.

“Sherlock! Open up!”

There was no answer. None of the lights were on. 

John sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He shifted on his feet and knocked again. He called out, “Sherlock? Please, open up. I want to try and talk this out with you.” 

Still, there was no response. 

John felt a seed of worry burn in his stomach. He ignored it. The boy was stubborn, that was all. Fine then. John was stubborn too.

“If you’re not going to open the door, I’ll just say what I need to right here then.” John took a deep breath, “I’m sorry if you feel like you can’t talk to me. I know it seems like I’m trying to…to govern your life, or parent you, or something. And given what you’ve been through, that must feel like salt on the wound. But I promise you, Sherlock, I’m not trying to dictate you. I’m concerned for you. As a friend. I promise you, I’m really worried about what you’ve been getting up to. And I want to help, no matter what that means.”

Silence met his words.

John’s head thunked against the front of Sherlock’s door. He’d have to leave soon. Mary would be home in a little while. It didn’t exactly look normal for a grown man to be seen outside of a teenager’s house practically begging to be let in. 

“Please, just, let me know you’re alright.” He pleaded to the wood grain.

When the house refused to give up any knowledge of being occupied, John walked back to his car. His leg twinged with sharp pain, and he pulled his cane out of the boot.

It felt like failure.

He went to bed without responding to Mary’s questions, and stared at the wall while he pretended to sleep, which felt like cowardice. 

Tomorrow, John decided. He’d get some answers out of the boy tomorrow or he was going to the police. 

The next day, he waited. Anxious and fidgety while he pretended to work. Every tick of the clock poked at his patience. The time for lunch came, and John couldn’t be bothered to even register the taste of his food. 

On and on the ticking went, and the door remained unopened. No black curly head popped in to ask for medical supplies, there wasn’t a strut of long legs keeping up with the pace of a rapid fire mind. It was close to two minutes before lunch period ended, and John’s fingers curled over his office phone. He was trying to remember what Sherlock had worn last so he could describe it to the officers, when he heard his door quietly click shut.

John spun around. Sherlock was leaning against the wall like it was the only thing keeping him standing. 

“Jesus,” John cursed as he rushed for him. With one hand on the boy’s shoulder he guided him down into a chair. Sherlock’s hoodie fell back and John swore again. 

His face was chalk pale and perspiring. He was clearly dehydrated, as his tongue was a hot pink dart in and out of his mouth as he tried to lick the sweat from his lips. The skin clung to his cheeks like it was painted on. John pulled back an eyelid, and his worst fears were confirmed. The pupil was massively dilated, even in the brightly lit office. 

“Fucking _drugs_? Are you kidding me?” John went back to his phone and immediately dialed for an ambulance. He described the situation in clipped and clear words, and hung up the phone after the assurance that help would be arriving in ten minutes. 

Then he pulled out a clean hand towel, soaked it under tap water, and pressed it to Sherlock’s lips. “All this time and it was just a bloody binge. I should shove this towel down your throat, I really should, you great sodding wanker. For the smartest kid I’ve ever met you sure are a fucking idiot.” 

“You swear a lot more when you think no one is listening,” Sherlock’s words came muffled from underneath the wet towel. “I suppose you can’t curse at a student as much as you used to with a fellow soldier.”

John was so startled that he let go of the cloth and stepped back. Sherlock, with all of the fluid grace of a cat, sat up and removed it from his face. 

“Your level headedness under pressure is quite admirable though, the swearing notwithstanding. Although I suspect you do that for fun more than stress relief.” 

“What the hell?” John blurted. 

“Or when you’re genuinely surprised at something, you do it then too.”

“Seriously, Sherlock, what the actual hell? A minute ago you had all the signs of severe drug abuse, and now you’re…you’re…”

Fine. He was completely fine. His eyes weren’t glazed over, he was beaming at him with a grin of pure mischief, and as John looked closer, the bottom half of Sherlock’s face was slightly less pale. The makeup had been smeared by his wet towel.

“You’re dead,” John said with finality. “You’re going to be a dead teenager in ten seconds; if you don’t tell me the fucking Nobel Peace Prize winning reason you concocted to act like you were an addict for over a _month_ , and then scaring me half to death.”

“I’m trying to catch a drug trafficking ring.”

“That’s…okay then. Sorry, no, wait. What?”

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. As if John were the one who was being difficult. “I’ve been noticing a flurry of drug activity among the students for quite a while now. I couldn’t exactly go to the police. They don’t tend to listen to a teenager that tries to tell them there’s a massive crime spree happening amongst the local children. So, I had to pretend that I regularly partake in narcotics in order to attract those who sell them.”

“Unfortunately, the dealers are the same ‘gentlemen’ that I met on my first day here. So instead of giving me the drugs that I ‘need’ they’ve been taunting me as I suffer from withdrawal. Except that just a few hours ago they finally gave me what I required.” 

Sherlock reached into his jeans pocket and shook out a small baggie filled with white powder. John nearly choked on his own spit. “Is that cocaine?” John asked in startled surprise.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and drawled, “No, Doctor Watson, it’s powdered sugar. Yes, of course it’s cocaine.” 

He tossed it over into a trash bin while John spluttered. “Anyway,” Sherlock continued, “as an addict with major withdrawal I wouldn’t have waited more than, oh, ten minutes before I tried to inhale that entire bag. More than likely it’s laced with something even more addictive or it’s just plain poisonous. Either way, he clearly expected me to die from whatever was in that bag. So, here I am, about to be carted away to the hospital to either perish or be firmly out of the way by being expelled for drug use.”

“But, that’s,” John tried to pick up his reason after it had scattered all over the linoleum. “Surely you can catch him with that,” he nodded towards the trash, “with fingerprints or something!”

Sherlock sighed and waved his hand for emphasis, “Haven’t you been listening? I said a major drug ring has nestled its way into this lazy town, and you think it will come toppling down with one spoiled teenager? No, either he says nothing out of fear or misplaced loyalty, or his cohorts find out about his arrest and either flee or destroy the evidence. I just needed to see him after he’d come back from wherever he gets his supply. His clothes and shoes told me all I needed to know about their location.”

John heard sirens closing in. “That’s—that’s great then! You can go to the police with that and they’ll--”

“No.” Sherlock cut him off. “I have every reason to suspect that at least one of the dealers is a child of one of the officers. If the authorities dawdled on this because of bureaucracy, and the parent warned them, which they likely would, then the same situation would occur.”

There was a muffled bang down the hall. The paramedics were here. Sherlock took out a small compact disk of white cream and smeared it on his chin. It wasn’t a perfect job, but with the rush the medics would be in, they likely wouldn’t notice. 

“You said you wanted to help,” Sherlock said as he tossed the white cream into the same bin as the drugs. “I’m asking for it. Meet me in my hospital room tonight and I’ll explain everything. And bring your gun.”

Before John could ask how Sherlock knew he even had a gun, the boy flopped back onto the table and groaned in deep pain. The medics rushed through at the next second. After that, it was a whirlwind of questions that John had to lie about. He could have broken the secrecy. He could have tried to spin it as a teenager’s idea of a prank, but something in him told him to trust Sherlock. Which was absolutely baffling, since he had just admitted to lying to him for over a month. 

He could attribute it all to curiosity, but he would be lying. It was the way his blood hummed at the possibility of being helpful in the middle of a dangerous situation. Still, John promised himself that if anything looked like it would be too risky, he’d drag the kid out by his hair if necessary.

Once Sherlock was carted away, John put on some gloves and pulled the baggie out of the trash. He thought about the kid that had beaten Sherlock, and how easy it would be to get prints off of the plastic. Then he thought about Sherlock’s fingers having been all over it, and his assurance that this was much bigger than some rich brat pretending to be a movie gangster. 

John dumped the contents into the toilet, lit a match, and burned the plastic bag. Molly came in a little while later and complained about smelling something strange. John denied being able to smell it. 

That night, John told Mary the truth. “Sherlock came in today, and looked like death warmed over. After I called the paramedics he asked me to see him tonight.”

“Oh, Jesus! Yes, go John. I don’t know why you didn’t just call me to tell me!”

“I needed to pick something up,” John told the truth again, “I don’t know how long I’ll be there.”

“Alright,” Mary nodded, “did you want me to come too?”

“No, no it’s fine. There’s no sense in us both getting back cramps in those chairs. But thank you.”

She pecked his cheek. “I’ll pack something up for you and him. Hopefully he’ll be able to stomach something soon.”

John smiled and squeezed her hand, “Could you find out what room he’s in? It’s not going to go smoothly with the staff otherwise, since we’re not related.”

“Sure, John. Hurry up and get your things.”

John’s gun was illegal, unloaded, and hidden in a box in his closet underneath some marriage counseling books. He never thought too hard about what kind of metaphor that implied. He stuffed it behind his back and covered it with his jacket. He kept the ammo in his front pocket. 

He threw together some clothes, grabbed his charger, and kissed Mary on the way out the door as she handed him a bag of food. 

“I’ll let you know when I’m headed back,” he promised.

“If you stay the night, I’ll stop by tomorrow during my shift, and check in on the both of you,” Mary said. 

John hesitated at that, but there was no reason for him to say she shouldn’t. Hopefully, whatever Sherlock had planned wouldn’t take long. “Okay, I’ll see you then.”

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he drove to the hospital. He wasn’t sure if it sounded like a beat to a song, or a tempo to a march.

Mary’s call ahead turned out to be a huge help, as they led him to Sherlock’s room once John said his name. “Mary’s a godsend around here,” the nurse said, “and we’d be monsters if we kept this kid away from the only guardian he’s got right now.”

“Thank you,” John said sincerely. 

She nodded at the door, “He’s in here. Last I saw he was pretty out of it so try not to disturb him too much. If you need me, my name is Janine.”

John didn’t bother saying thank you again, which she seemed used to. He strode in and shut the door behind him. 

John expected Sherlock to be sitting up if not standing, fully dressed and ready to finish whatever he started. Seeing him prone, pale, and unresponsive, aside from the steady beeping of the monitor, crashed the exuberant expectation John had been riding.

“Sherlock,” John called out as he stepped closer to the bed. “Are you awake?” He felt stupid as soon as the question was in the air. 

Sherlock’s breathing was steady and deep. His eyelids flickered from whatever dream he was seeing. He was still pale, and skinny. The needle in his arm looked harsh and malicious, even though John knew it was giving him much needed nourishment and hydration. 

With him like this, John began to seriously doubt that he’d seen him conscious and responsive just a short while ago. Maybe he’d imagined it, desperate for the kid to be okay. John sighed deeply and set his overnight bag on the table. 

He nearly jolted out of his skin when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Out of reflex, his own hand shot up to grip it tightly, and he twisted it around to put the stranger in an arm lock. Then reality reasserted itself, and he was nearly dislocating the shoulder of a teenage addict. 

John dropped the hand like it burned, and stepped away immediately. Disgust boiled in his stomach, while horror turned his mind blank. A hundred different versions of “I’m so sorry” crowded his mouth in an attempt to flee all at once. 

But then he saw Sherlock’s smile.

“Excellent,” Sherlock said with genuine praise, “I was worried that your instincts would have been dulled.” He paused for a sudden thought, “I’ve never been happy to be mistaken. It’s an interesting feeling.” 

“What the hell Sherlock,” John was quiet about his outrage, as the boy had also spoken in a low tone. Even though he didn’t know why they needed to suddenly be quiet. “I could have hurt you!”

“Well, good thing that we’re in a hospital, if that had happened. Which it didn’t. So don’t worry so much.”

John was about to say something that was definitely inappropriate to say to a pseudo-student. Sherlock spoke over him before he could. “I don’t suppose that contains an extra set of my own clothes,” he nodded towards the bag.

“No, just mine,” John ground out. He was still irritated at being manipulated to show off his basic training to a lying little brat, but John came here for a reason, and he was going to see it out. 

“Ah, shame. I can make do with it. You’re shorter than me even though you’re older.”

“Sherlock, I nearly just dislocated your arm. Let’s not push matters.”

Sherlock made a face that conceded John’s point, even if it twisted slightly to prevent an obvious laugh. One hurried change in the bathroom later, and Sherlock stepped out in John’s sweatpants with the ties cinched tight, and an old hoodie that was (damn him) unable to reach his wrists and occasionally rose up his stomach. 

“I seriously don’t know how you manage to inspire deference in anyone when you’re so—“

“Oh, goodness, is that a supposedly catatonic teenager I see walking about this late at night? I better alert the nurses and authorities.”

Sherlock sucked in his lips, as if physically restraining the comment was the only thing that prevented him from completing it. 

It was frighteningly easy for them to leave the hospital. John guessed it was the late night, and the fact that Sherlock was supposedly being watched over by another doctor. 

The night air was cool without being freezing. With the yellow streetlights and the quiet serenity, it felt like they were the only two people walking in the whole world. John shoved that stray thought away to unpack at a later time, or possibly never. 

When the hospital was out of sight, John finally spoke up, “So. You didn’t fake being a junkie for a month just to take me out for an evening stroll.”

Sherlock snorted, and looked at John in surprised humor, “You don’t know that for certain. It’s a rather lovely night.”

John rolled his eyes, “Seriously, Sherlock. We’ve reached the edge of my patience.”

“I know you have questions. You can go ahead and ask them now.”

“Where are we going?”

“A crime scene. Well, the beginnings of one, anyway. We’re about to bring a series of crimes to a halt after infiltrating this place, thereby making it a crime scene. I thought I told you this already? Weren’t you paying attention?”

“Right,” John resumed walking, “okay then. And what crime, exactly, are we stopping?”

Sherlock sighed in exasperation, “I _know_ I already told you that. A drug ring. There’s been an increased amount of drug distribution on the campus grounds. Is this really not ringing any bells for you?”

“I was a bit distracted by the collapsed teenager on my medical table. But yes, I do remember now. So, how exactly are we going to stop them? And I still say we should go to the police.”

Sherlock scoffed, “Even with your support of my claims, they still wouldn’t take me seriously. And then, once they did, it would be too late and the culprits would have gotten rid of everything. No, it’s better as a two-person job. Catch them in the act. Filming is optimal, which reminds me.” He pulled out John’s phone.

Which didn’t make any sense because that had been in John’s jeans. John patted his empty pocket, and frowned at the teenager. Sherlock shrugged, “You didn’t bring my phone. Yours will have to do. What’s your passcode?”

“You know, a simple ‘please’ would go a surprisingly long way.”

“Never mind. I got it already.”

“How? How is that even—Never mind.”

There was a series of beeps that didn’t make sense. John asked, “What are you doing?” 

“I’m giving you my phone number. It’s useful, since you won’t have to come to my house every time you want to talk now. Though I prefer to text. Also, you really need more than just your wife’s number, your office, and your wife’s work number in your contacts.” 

John was about to retort that he just hadn’t had time to meet new people, when he realized something. “So, you know that I went to your house?”

Sherlock didn’t say anything at first. When he was done entering the number, he slipped the phone into his pocket and said, “I heard you. I didn’t know if I could answer the door. I wasn’t sure if someone had been following me, so I had to pretend to be spiraling at my home as well.”

“Oh,” John said. He stared at the pavement. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock eventually said. “I…know you weren’t trying to dictate my life. And for what it’s worth, I consider you a friend too.”

John didn’t have a response to that. He just smiled, and felt his steps become slightly lighter. When he glanced at Sherlock, they were sharing the same smile.

They walked for more than an hour in the dark. The neighborhood they ended up in was less than reputable, but John had seen far worse in London. Up ahead, there was a large and abandoned building. From the rusted gates and numerous smaller facilities, it was the remnants on an old plant. 

At a distance, everything appeared as it should be. Utterly without life. Once they got to the gates, evidence of people became more apparent. Discarded cigarette butts, an apple core someone had tossed, and numerous footprints that formed a small trail to an opening in the fence.

“Idiots,” Sherlock murmured, “they don’t even bother to cover where they congregate the most.” 

“Teenaged drug dealers Sherlock,” John reminded him, “not exactly the most discerning individuals.”

Sherlock acknowledged that with a hum and a small smirk. Then his face turned serious. “Once we’re inside, there should be plenty of hiding spaces for you. I’ll need you to film the transaction from a sequestered location that can still capture audio and have a clear visual. There will be more than one person in here, so you’ll need to be cautious of your surroundings.”

“No pressure,” John dryly said, “Hang on, ‘transaction’? You mean you’re going to try and bust him for selling you drugs? By yourself?”

“Yes, obviously by myself, since you are clearly a figment of my desperate imagination.” 

John gritted his teeth. “Seriously, Sherlock, how is this going to help anything?”

“You’ll be my eyes and ears. And backup, if necessary. Hence why I asked you to bring your gun. If they catch onto us, things may get messy. Although since most of them are teenagers, they should be scared off by the sight of the weapon. I just need to know who’s running the operation. Once we have sufficient evidence, the first thing we’ll do is bring it to the police. I promise.”

John sighed at Sherlock’s earnest expression. This was stupidly dangerous, especially for a kid. They had no business being there. But John thought of all the work and effort Sherlock had gone through to try and catch these people, and what would possibly happen if he went in alone. 

So John nodded. “Alright, lead the way. At a certain point, I’ll split up from you to try and find a hiding spot. If at any moment things don’t seem right, you leave, or you get my attention to aid you in said leaving, got it?”

Sherlock nodded, clearly pleased. Together, they moved towards the building. John surveyed the area, trying to see if there was another exit aside from the single spaced opening in the wire. The fencing seemed to be surprisingly intact for such a derelict area. 

It was possible that the main entrance was on the opposite side of the building, but John didn’t like that idea even if there was one. The obvious entrance was more likely to be guarded, even if ‘guarded’ meant a group of gangly teenagers. 

They’d have to place their faith in booking it for the back exit, and hope that a group of junkies would be about as well coordinated and athletic as one would assume. 

Soon they entered the building, and the sound of their steps echoed against the concrete. It wasn’t long before John saw his means of cover. Catwalks lined most of the upper level. It was heavily shadowed, it had plenty of boxes for additional stealth, he would be able to see and hear everyone on the ground floor, and very rarely did people think to look up when considering their surroundings. 

The only thing he didn’t like was how far it placed him from Sherlock. If he was immediately needed, there wasn’t much he could do aside from providing a distraction. 

He hesitated at the foot of a ladder. Sherlock noticed and nodded to him, “I’ll be fine. All I need is the video evidence, and who his supplier is. Once we have those, I’ll leave, and you follow behind me. Then we’ll go to the police. I promise.”

John let out a breath. His hands were steady as he clasped Sherlock’s shoulder. “The second you feel something is off, get out of there. I’ll watch your back.”

Sherlock paused as if he wanted to say something. Then he simply nodded, and walked away. 

John took out his gun once he reached the top of the ladder. He walked as silently as he could while trying to outpace the teenager. He wanted to survey the area Sherlock was walking into, in case there were any unpleasant surprises. 

He found a group of about a dozen teenagers lounging about on pilfered or salvaged furniture. Some were playing a card game, others were having a quiet conversation while drinking some terrible beer, and a couple were standing next to what had to be at least one hundred ounces of cocaine, all of it was neatly packaged in white bricks on a table. 

Jesus, Sherlock had been right. There was no way a group of kids could have ever gotten ahold of something like this. The oldest one, who couldn’t have been over his mid-twenties, was seated at the head of the table with his feet resting near the merchandise. Clearly, he thought himself as the head of the operation. 

John fumbled for his phone, and brought up the camera feature. It took him a minute to figure out how to zoom, but he took a shot of the leader in full profile, right next to the giant pile of evidence. The sound of his shutter going off nearly gave John a heart attack. 

He waited for a breathless second, but no one had heard his phone clicking. Belatedly, he turned it on silent, annoyed at himself, and then took a picture of all of the ones whose faces he could clearly see from his vantage point. 

All conversations ground to a halt when Sherlock walked into sight. 

John turned his phone to video, and hit record. He hated how having the phone in his one hand meant he’d be slower if called upon to use the gun with the other. Even shoving the mobile away into his pocket would mean precious time lost. 

When John looked back at Sherlock, it took him a moment to remember that he was only acting. The change in Sherlock’s demeanor was astounding. He was unsure, timid, and desperate. His arms were crossed in a defensive posture, there was a faint tremor that occasionally shook through his whole body, and he seemed too exhausted to lift his feet from the floor. 

If John couldn’t motivate him into a field of study, then at least a prosperous acting career wasn’t an impossibility. 

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” one of the card players sneered. He stood up, and John recognized him as one of the students. Clearly, this was the one that had given Sherlock the drugs, and quite possibly had intended for him to die from an overdose.

“You’re either fucking invincible, or you’ve been smoking crack since you were a toddler. I _know_ what was in those drugs, freak, and you shouldn’t even be walking.” 

John should have made Sherlock give him a name the first day they met. He’s not sure if he would have done the adult thing and gotten the brat expelled, or if he would have had a nice little ‘chat’ with him instead. John could see a few malicious smirks from his mates, and some confused expressions for those who had no idea who this stranger was. 

“So, how did you survive freak? I heard some people posted videos of you getting wheeled away into an ambulance.” 

Sherlock shook his head like he was trying to shake a thought loose, “Just—just exhaustion. I collapsed before I could even—they took the drugs Gary. I need—I need more.”

Gary exploded into laughter, “Oh that is too fucking good. The addict keeled over before he could get his fix?”

A few of the others joined in his mockery, while the leader just frowned from his table. Sherlock seemed to sway in place. 

“Snuck out then did you? How the hell did you even find this place? What?” His voice dipped into an exaggerated baritone, “Was it something about the mud patterns on my shoes? The fraying of my jacket? That I didn’t blink in a certain direction?” 

He got close enough to Sherlock that he tried to loom over him. It was only mildly accomplished because Sherlock was trying to be so pathetically small. John’s eye twitched, but his hands remained steady. 

“Come on then,” the boy shoved Sherlock, “show off your trick for our fearless leader over there.”

He jerked a thumb back at the man who had slowly begun to sit up. From this distance, it was hard to tell expressions, but John could sense a coiled tension that only came from unpredictable people. 

Sherlock mumbled something. Apparently, even as close as he was, Gary didn’t hear him. “What? Speak up. We can’t hear you.”

Sherlock said something a bit more distinct, although John couldn’t make it out. Then Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. Gary’s response was instantaneous. 

Sherlock was doubled over before John even saw the fist land in his stomach. In one smooth motion, he had the phone down on the grating and the gun raised up. To fire on what, he would never be sure. 

Then he noticed Sherlock’s hands waving frantically in the air. To anyone else, it looked like a strung out teen fighting for air, with his hands waving spastically without purpose. But they were aimed at John. He was telling him to wait. He didn’t have the information he needed yet. 

John let out a slow breath, and lowered the gun back down. Then he picked up his phone and aimed it back at the children who were in way over their empty heads. 

“Enough,” the oldest one said, finally deigning to stand up from his rickety throne. “Gary, who is this guy? How did he find this place?”

Gary ducked his head and scuffed the ground with his shoe. He mumbled something, and the leader barked, “Speak the fuck up.” 

“He…found the address I dropped.”

There was a pregnant pause before the warehouse erupted into laughter. Calls of ‘dumbass’ and ‘seriously’ were the pointed jeers that clearly stabbed at the boy’s pride. Gary’s expression turned furious, and he kicked Sherlock while he was still on the ground.

“It’s your fault! You lifted it from me you goddamn--”

“I said enough!” The voice cut through the taunts like an icy wind. John had to hand it to the kid, he at least knew how to keep a bunch of teenagers in line. John just might ask him for tips after he was in handcuffs. 

“It’s not his fault you’re a stupid twat. Are you kidding me with this bullshit? You wrote down the address? Are you fucking twelve?”

Gary flushed, but didn’t say a word in his defense. Apparently, he did possess a brain.

“Help him up and bring him over here, I want to talk to him,” the leader slouched back into his seat. Clearly, insulting idiots was exhausting. He and Sherlock had a lot in common, John wryly thought. 

As Gary and some other boy hefted Sherlock between them none too gently, John tensed again. None of them seemed to be carrying a firearm, but a well-placed switchblade could do fatal damage in minutes. He wouldn’t be able to spot it from this distance until it was too late. John’s fingers twitched over the handle of his gun.

Sherlock could barely get his feet underneath him, so he was essentially dragged over to the boss. With their entertainment apparently done, the others went back to their respective boredom chasers, with the curious few shooting glances at the tweaked intruder.

John followed along the catwalk with his camera. They put Sherlock in the chair across from the leader, and stood with their arms crossed like they were on a mobster movie. John restrained himself from rolling his eyes. 

“So, you’re the one Gary’s harping on about. You’d think he was obsessed with you, the way he never shuts up.” The leader leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table. He ran his eyes over Sherlock’s shaking and skinny body. “Personally, I don’t see what has got his knickers so wadded. But, whatever, maybe you’re a right prick when you’re not out of your mind for some smack.”

He folded his hands together, “Just so we’re on even footing, you can call me Mr. Snow.” John choked back his snort, “Now then, Sherlock, what brings you to my humble place of business?”

Sherlock shook his head. He seemed to have trouble following the meaning of words. He scratched at his arm, “I just—I lost my stash. From earlier. I can pay again; I just need a bit more.” 

Mr. Snow tutted, “See, this is where we run into some issues. Because I’m having a hard time believing, even if you’re only half as smart as Gary implies, that you couldn’t find another supplier elsewhere.”

John went very still. He kept his phone aimed at the conversation, but his other hand curled over his weapon.

“So come on then Sherlock,” Snow leaned his weight forward, “between two friends, why are you _really_ here?”

Sherlock looked to the side. Snow’s face turned ugly. “I wouldn’t be shy now. Especially if you like having your bones unbroken.”

John tensed, ready to intercede. Maybe he could startle them into confusion and chaos by firing a warning shot at the concrete floor. Hopefully, that would give Sherlock enough time to escape.

Sherlock said, “I want…I want to join you.”

Snow’s eyes widened. Once he composed himself, he motioned for Sherlock to continue. “I—get bored at school. I don’t have friends. The thought of being stuck at some boring temp job scares me to death. I thought—I wanted to find you, and ask you if I could be initiated.”

Snow slowly began to look satisfied and smug. Gary looked like he was about to swallow his own tongue.

“And I’m sure having access to premium drugs didn’t sway your decision?” Snow asked. 

Sherlock flinched at the accusation, but didn’t refute it. 

“…Okay. I’m not saying that you’re in. But we’ll go for a trial run for a while. Make sure you can stand up to the demands without falling over. We’ll give you pay, and occasionally, even a bit of the wares.” He leaned forward again, his expression serious in its capacity for cruelty, “If, however, I find out this was all just a little fib to snatch up as many goods as you could get your hands on, then there’s not a damned place you could go where we wouldn’t hunt you the fuck down.”

Sherlock nodded, and kept his eyes meekly on the floor. Snow slapped his hands on the table in fake joviality, “Right then, let’s talk in my office. I can think of a few grunt jobs you could do where a rail thin nobody like you would go unquestioned. The rest of these shits are too posh for it.” 

John began to curse in his head. The room had windows that he could directly see into, but taking a shot through glass was always tricky, and the awkward angle the catwalk afforded him didn’t help anything. He also wouldn’t be able to hear anything that went on in there. The evidence wouldn’t be documented.

Sherlock shakily stood up, and followed Snow into the office. The two goons were told to wait outside, which clearly infuriated Gary. He kept his mouth shut. 

The door shut, and John was left to stew in his own indecision. Sherlock had explicitly asked him not to act without getting his information. But John couldn’t ignore that he’d just gone into a room unprotected and alone, with two people on the outside ready to rush in and intervene, quite possibly violently, if necessary. 

Ten minutes. John could wait for ten minutes. After that, he’d cause a distraction, and give Sherlock enough time to get away or grab the evidence he needed. 

John sat alone, worried for the impossibly brilliant boy, anxious to have this over with, and warring with a lovely internal cocktail of exhaustion and unspent adrenaline. He was also more at home in his own skin than he’d ever been since he had stepped off of that plane and back onto English soil. 

As the time ticked by, he suspected that his grinding impatience would pulp his insides. Still, John held his ground, and waited for the perfect moment to provide a distraction or for Sherlock to give some kind of signal. 

It was less of a signal, and more of a catastrophic explosion. Sherlock shoved the door open so hard that it banged against the wall and nearly swung into the face of Snow, who was right behind him.

The two assigned as protection were so shocked by the sudden development that they didn’t even move. Snow yelled, “Hey, just what the hell do you think you’re--”

“The _superintendent_? Is this some sort of elaborate joke? The so inferred ‘mastermind’, behind a rag tag group of child drug pushers, is the bloody superintendent?” 

A handheld gaming device played some tinny music in the abruptly silent warehouse. Snow’s mouth opened and closed. John kept his phone steady while he watched Sherlock systematically and spectacularly endanger both of their lives.

“Oh, don’t tell me you lot didn’t know! A vintage class ring? He keeps it in his office by his pens so that its sentimental value isn’t outweighed by the impracticality, not to mention stupidity, of wearing it around in public. He is too young to have attended, and it clashes with the ‘mobster chic’ aesthetic you’re so desperately trying to pull off, so obviously you didn’t purchase it yourself. Therefore, it’s a gift. Now, could it be a gift from a relative? No, as that would mean exposure of your home life in the workplace. Despite all appearances you don’t seem to be that stupid.” 

“However, you _are_ idiotic enough to try to earn the favor of someone you consider your mentor. Therefore, it’s a gift from someone within this little self-made ‘empire’. A higher up, based on the age of the ring alone, as well as the fact that whoever that ring belongs to isn’t here often enough to prevent you from having it out in the open where anyone can see it.” 

“So, a class ring from a supposed ‘responsible’ figure and someone who would be able to organize all of the dealings at the schools. Different schools, not just the one I attend, as evidenced by the different uniforms that are only partially hidden under your jackets. Someone who had to have access to all of your school records, to know who he could make a business proposition to, based on past juvenile sentences or even hearsay from other teachers.” 

“He would need to have an established and trustworthy relationship to a former delinquent of one of those schools. Someone who was young enough to appeal to your subordinates, but old enough that he could be trusted with the responsibility of a drug smuggling operation. Someone like you, Mister Charles Pierce.”

Sherlock spun around to face Mr. Snow, “No wonder you chose an alias. You used to be the worst of the bunch at Gladstone, isn’t that right? Larceny, vandalism, even a bout of arson if some of the rumors are to be believed. But then you had a change of heart. Someone steered you in the right direction and you became the poster boy of rehabilitation. You’re the team supervisor for the nonprofit organization Lone Candle, meant to guide wayward teenagers back into polite society. An organization that was funded and formed by Leonard Graham.”

“The man who invests his charity funds into the more lucrative field of drug distribution, promising brand new game consoles, piles of money, and bricks of cocaine to whatever pimple faced fool wants to have a go at being part of a ‘criminal empire’. The same Leonard Graham who went to Wuthering Heights University and graduated in the mid-sixties. Around the same time period as when this particular ring,” Sherlock held up a small piece of jewelry. The purple stone glittered in the bright lights. “Stopped being manufactured. Oh, how could I possibly know that? Because I’ve seen this exact same ring in the saccharine photographs of the superintendent and my principal pretending to be the best of friends during public functions. “

“So, in conclusion,” he told to a silent and gob smacked audience, which included John. “This has been a colossal disappointment. The ringleader is the damned superintendent. God! I would have been happier if it was the janitor instead of being this predictable!”

Sherlock’s derisive end to his speech was like the thunderclap that jolted everyone from stillness. John had one moment to savor Sherlock’s hilarious expression of realization and regret, before Snow barked out orders to “Take him out! Take him out!”

While John wanted to believe that a group of teenagers, no matter how stupid their chosen extracurriculars, wouldn’t resort to outright murder, there was no denying the bloodthirsty look in Gary’s face, or the way the others jumped up from their seats to comply.

So John aimed, and fired on the one thing that he’d been eyeing as a promising distraction this whole time. It was the precarious and rusted support to a jutted ledge of industrial equipment. 

It had been a while since he’d fired a gun. The vibrations of the gun’s kickback felt like a favorite song he had forgotten.

The target was clear across the warehouse, and the support was thin, but a tense second after he had pulled the trigger, he heard the sharp ricochet of metal on metal over the yells of the boys below. If the sound of the gunshot wasn’t enough to distract them, the horrible screeching of metal giving away and iron smashing into a concrete floor from a six meter drop certainly did it. 

When John looked down, the group was standing there, blinking and dazed from the sudden noise as well as the syrup slow process of figuring out what had just happened. All except Sherlock. Who was running in the opposite direction of the place where they’d come in. 

John kept his curse to a mutter, and started taking off in the same direction. This drew the attention of several teenagers.

“It’s a cop!” One of them yelled. John briefly considered trying to use that to his advantage, but it was dashed by Snow’s voice yelling, “Get the both of them! Fucking go go go!”

He heard a dozen feet hit the concrete behind him. John cursed his luck. Now he had to get down before they pinned him like a cat in a tree. Then he scoffed at himself. ‘They were a group of hormonal washouts,’ John thought, ‘what possible threat could they pose?’

Then he heard an unfamiliar gunshot, and a chip of concrete wall broke off behind him. Alright then. So a group of bored kids with an antagonistic view of authority figures, who felt on top of the world due to their intense bout of make-believe, had just come across two people who had the potential to bring it all toppling down, and one of them also owned a gun. Great. 

John was going to kill Sherlock for this.

As he ran, John suddenly became aware of another large problem. He had no way of getting down. Oh, there was sure to be a ladder up ahead, but that left him wide open as an easy target. Even if the kid had shitty aim, something moving slowly down a predicted path would be much easier to shoot than someone running for their life. 

He was coming up short on ideas that didn’t end with him getting a broken leg or worse, when he heard Sherlock yell, “You have to jump!” 

John yelled back, “Jump _where_ exactly?” He cursed loudly when another bullet lodged its way into the wall. 

“James, you have to jump! On my mark!” 

John’s brief confusion was chased away by tentative understanding. It was a signal. Either to do the exact opposite of whatever Sherlock said, or at the very least, not pay attention to it. John still had no way of knowing how he was going to get out of this situation, but his only option was to trust Sherlock.

Sherlock called out, “Jump! Now!” 

John stopped running. He waited for the bullet to find its way into some part of his body. Instead, he heard a loud thud, as well as the sound of wild gunfire and excited voices closer towards the center of the floor rather than along the edge. It was only after seeing the blinding flashes of gunpowder in the darkness did John realize he’d run far from the only light the group had to see in the abandoned warehouse. 

John saw the outline of one of the ladders, and made his way quickly down. Dread hollowed his chest when he didn’t hear or see Sherlock running along the ground. It could’ve been Sherlock who had jumped for him as a distraction, or he had meant for John to piece together some elaborate scheme and it all failed because John didn’t understand in time.

He was about to rush over to where the boys were hollering at each other, prepared to fight his way to Sherlock’s body, when a hand clamped over his. 

“I appreciate your concern, but I believe we should get moving.” Sherlock hastily whispered as he tugged John after him. Soon, they were running side by side.

Whatever had been used as a replacement for his body was discovered, as the kids all began swearing and running at once. Snow was practically having a conniption. 

John felt air in his lungs in the deep places that can only be reached when one is desperately running for their lives. He realized that the gunshots had stopped. He thought about the kind of handgun a teenager would own, how many bullets it was capable of containing, and how many times the kid had fired into a wall or at nothing. 

It was very possible the trigger happy kid had exhausted the group’s only gun, but John wasn’t going to risk his and Sherlock’s life on a maybe. He was about to fire a warning shot down at the floor between him and their pursuers, to show that he very much had bullets left, when Sherlock breathlessly instructed him, “When we clear the doors, throw your gun somewhere.”

“What, why?” John stopped aiming. 

“No breath or time to explain, just trust me. We’ll get it back later.” 

John wanted to protest. The gun was in his name after all. If someone found it and traced it back to him, he’d be in serious trouble. But, hell, he’s come this far trusting the word of a brilliant teenager. It would be a bit insincere of him if he stopped now. 

So they slammed through the double doors, John counted twenty steps, and then tossed his firearm into the darkness. He thought he heard it clang against something metal, but that could have been the doors banging open again for their pursuers. 

“Any other brilliant plans?” John asked. He saw two boys up ahead, who must have been tasked with guarding the regular entrance. They took notice of the commotion, and started to run in their direction. 

“We should split up for safety.”

“Not happening,” John declared. The two guards, or more accurately, bean poles with bad acne, caught up to them. Not surprising, since they were both running towards them rather than away. 

John had a brief moment to wish for his gun, even just to use as a blunt object to their faces. His fists would have to do. Before one of them could reach for him, John stepped into his space, and hit him dead across the jaw. The kid hit the ground. 

He heard some grappling to his side. He turned around and saw Sherlock and the other one battling for the upper hand. It was no wonder, since Sherlock had essentially been starving himself for his cover. John quickly pulled Sherlock away, which upset the balance of the other so his stomach collided into John’s fist. The kid wheezed out a breath before he collapsed onto the ground, heaving for air. 

Good Lord this was like fighting toddlers. He had a moment to feel bad for their walloping, before he remembered they were supposed to be running. John grabbed Sherlock’s wrist and took off. He heard a few of the other kids checking to make sure their friends were okay; the others began to catch up due to the delay. 

“Have you never won a fight before?” John couldn’t help but quip as they sped ahead. Sherlock was looking a little fatigued, but his long legs helped him keep pace. John knew it wouldn’t last for much longer.

“You can teach me later,” Sherlock said, “for now, jump into the bushes.” 

“What?!”

“Do it! Now!”

John growled out his frustrated confusion, and then he dove into the unruly hedges that lined the path. It hurt. A lot. The brambles cut into his exposed skin, and the branches were thick enough to be a series of blunt forces. His weight was heavy enough that he managed to hit the ground, but he definitely heard some distinct tears as his jacket was caught. He began to crawl forward, but he could barely move through the thicket. 

He heard the pounding of footsteps steadily gaining on their position. It wasn’t even much of a hiding spot; given that someone was bound to have seen them jump for the bushes. John was also certain that they had made a noticeable dent in the foliage. 

John scrambled to turn over, and it wasn’t until he tried to reach for it that he remembered he’d thrown away his gun. The frustration, and even a little bit of fear, started to bubble up in his throat. He had walked into a group of drug dealers, had thrown his illegal firearm into some unknown junk heap, and dived into a thicket of shrubs all on the word of a teenager. He was going to be beaten to death by a bunch of kids who were poor decision makers, all because he’d been bored and had desperately wanted to feel useful again. 

The worst part was, he didn’t feel like he regretted any of it. 

He flopped onto his back, frantically trying to come up with some way to make sure Sherlock would be able to escape. That was when he noticed that the sound of footsteps had been replaced with the sound of sirens. 

The grinding of car tires over gravel halted close to where John was stuck, and he heard officers shouting at each other to ‘cut them off’. Before John could alert them to his location, a hand reached for him. 

“John, quit lying about and come on!” Sherlock said. John rolled his eyes and held back his first instinctive verbal response. 

With Sherlock’s help he was able to get free of the bushes. Around them, cops swarmed the abandoned factory. In the distance, he saw the group of drug peddlers lying on the ground as they were handcuffed. 

“How did--”, John searched for the words to say. Sherlock beat him to it.

“How did the police arrive here so quickly? I’m afraid I was a bit dishonest with you earlier John. I had called the police, but only after you and I had split up and you went looking for a good vantage point. An anonymous tip to the police station about a minor disturbance was all that was needed. I calculated their response time, how long it would take for them to arrive at the scene, and the possibility of hearing quite the disturbance along with some worrisome gunshots. I predicted they would call in the cavalry, and here we are.”

“I, wait, hang on,” John stepped back to fully look at him, “how did you know there would be gunshots?”

“I told you to bring a gun and that it might be dangerous. There was a very distinct possibility it would all go sideways. If it hadn’t, then the police force wouldn’t have been needed, and we’d have the information we required. Now we have both.”

“Hey, you two!” An officer shouted as he approached them. “Hands on your head! Get to the ground!”

John had started to comply but Sherlock put a hand on his shoulder. “That won’t be necessary officer,” Sherlock said in an assured tone. John was beginning to suspect that there was a very real chance that this kid would be the death of him someday. 

“I’m the one who made the tip about the disturbance. My name is Sherlock Holmes; I gave it to the dispatcher.”

The cop looked dubiously between the two of them, but radioed it in for confirmation. When that was done he asked John, “And you are?”

John opened his mouth to respond, but Sherlock gripped his shoulder slightly tighter. “He is with me. He followed me here after I fled the hospital for a perceived drug overdose which was part of an undercover operation to dismantle a drug ring. The one you just took part in, congratulations. I’m sure you’ll have a riveting story to tell.” 

Both John and the officer stared open mouthed at Sherlock’s story. Before John could even think of a rational response, Sherlock continued. “Doctor John Watson is his name, he helped me document the evidence of a prominent community member fronting drugs through a nonprofit organization. You may want to go ahead and contact your superior.”

“S-Stay here,” the man stuttered as he rushed back to his car. 

For a moment John was about to reprimand Sherlock for blindly giving out their information like that when he had no time to even attempt at cooperation, but then he noticed the way Sherlock looked. 

He was glowing.

It wasn’t organic like sunlight, but refined and tuned like the manufactured comfort of a night light. Sherlock was practically buzzing with energy, despite being fatigued beyond comprehension. His grin was a brushstroke of well spent adrenaline. Sherlock looked complete, like he’d been searching for purpose and found a divine destiny. He was breathtaking.

John stamped that thought down when Sherlock turned to look at him. There, in Sherlock’s bright eyes, was the need for approval. After everything they’d been through, after all that Sherlock had accomplished, he sought out John’s praise.

Well, that was good, because John wasn’t able to stop himself.

“That was absolutely fantastic.”

If Sherlock was glowing before, he was incandescent now. John beamed back at him. 

Then he remembered something important. “You do realize that the only reason we had to run in the first place is because you threw a temper tantrum though, right?”

Sherlock blinked, and then scoffed, “I knew we’d make it out of there. I just wanted to give you something exciting to do. It would be a shame if you came out all this way for nothing.”

“No, you didn’t,” John was far from mad about it. He was grinning, pleased to have called out on Sherlock’s ridiculous need for theatrics. “You also didn’t need to have us jump into the bushes either.”

Sherlock shuffled his feet with nervous energy, “Well, we needed to get out of the way before the police arrived.”

“Or, you panicked and dove for the nearest hiding spot.” 

It was hard to tell with the flashing blue and red lights, but John would swear that Sherlock’s face was turning slightly pink. 

John laughed, loud and full. It came from somewhere bright and warm in his chest.

“John, stop laughing,” Sherlock said. He looked slightly put out by John’s amusement. 

Unable to stop, but wanting to show that he didn’t mind and that everything was alright, John reached out and gripped Sherlock’s arm. The boy was back to looking incomparably pleased, but he still demanded, “You can’t laugh here, it’s a crime scene.”

That just made John laugh harder. 

He continued to laugh for a long, long time. And eventually, Sherlock joined him as well. When they had managed to compress it down into giggles, the officer they’d spoken with before strode back to them, along with someone who had the demanding presence that belonged to a superior officer.

“Officer Smith says that you have information crucial to the case, and that you tipped us off to the drug den?” The superior asked while he looked directly at John. 

“Um, no,” John said, and tried to smother his grin after he glanced at Sherlock’s affronted look, “that wasn’t me, that was him. I only recorded what he figured out.”

John showed them the video, and Sherlock repeated what he had deduced with strained patience. The lieutenant left in a hurry, demanding someone get a judge to issue an arrest warrant for the superintendent as soon as possible. Before he got into his car, he yelled at John and Sherlock that he’d be taking their official statements, and then he sped away.

John blinked, and looked around. The teenagers had all been handcuffed and driven to holding. The officers who hadn’t been in those cars had left with their chief to go bring in the ringleader. Hopefully, before he received word of his little gang’s mishap. 

He and Sherlock were alone in the lot. 

“Maybe I should’ve asked for a ride,” John mused. He glanced over at Sherlock, who was looking at him with clear amusement. They both started laughing again. 

John sighed, and it felt like a release of so much satisfaction rather than stress. 

“Oh shit,” John said, “my gun. If they found it--”

“Don’t worry about it,” Sherlock dismissed. “They wouldn’t have been looking for it and I didn’t see them go anywhere near where it was tossed. Come on, I’ll help you find it.”

Eventually, they did. By that time the sun had peeked over the horizon, and John felt like his eyes had dried inside of his head. 

“We should be getting back,” John said around a yawn. “I think you have school in less than four hours.”

“It’s Saturday.”

“Oh, well then.” 

Sherlock laughed, “You may want to phone us a cab.”

John did just that, but it was very hard to give an address when he had no idea where they were. Still, no way was he going to walk all the way back to the hospital, and then drive them both home. He would probably pass out on the sidewalk before he got the chance.

As they both stumbled into the cab, weary beyond belief, John couldn’t remember when he’d felt so at peace. His body had been pushed beyond its limits, but he had done it for a good reason. He knew he would gladly do it all over again. 

Sherlock, despite the fact that he remained as giddy as when he had dismissed a police officer, was clearly fighting sleep. John was too. So they kept each other awake with recounts of what they’d thought of the other during the escapade. 

“God you were such a brilliant actor. I could’ve sworn you had switched with a doppelganger when you walked into the light.”

“You’re an excellent marksman. The distraction with the machinery was inspired.”

Back and forth they went, while the driver gave them odd looks every once in a while. Eventually the words lost meaning, and they just said things to stave off the temptation to sleep. They said nonsense phrases or compliments that had them giggling without reason. 

When they arrived home, John was grateful that the cabbie accepted cards, as he didn’t have nearly enough cash to cover the expense. 

“I’ll pay you back,” Sherlock promised as he swayed towards the sidewalk. 

“Don’t worry about it. Get some fluids in you before you go to bed, and I’ll consider it sorted.” 

Sherlock groaned, “Do you ever stop being a doctor?”

“Not after more than eight years of training, no.” 

They both giggled. When John nearly bumped into him after he tried to walk on the same bit of pavement, the sound halted.

They stopped moving. John looked behind him, surprised at himself. He’d been walking in the direction of Sherlock’s house. 

John cleared his throat. He was vastly underprepared for this sort of social cue. He had no idea how to end this. Was he supposed to say ‘Thanks for making me think you were a drug addict and bringing me along for a drugs bust, I had a marvelous time?’ 

As his tired brain sluggishly tried to come up with something appropriate to say, Sherlock beat him to it. 

“Tonight…it was…good,” Sherlock looked everywhere else but John’s face. 

John nodded, “Yeah, yeah I thought so too.”

They stood there, and shifted their weight. Sherlock took a deep breath, “Well, I should go inside--”, right as John said, “I need to go back--”

They both stopped and stared at each other. Their combined awkwardness made them both laugh. John fought with himself for a few more seconds then said, “What the hell,” and stepped forward to envelop Sherlock in a hug. 

John’s borrowed ill-fitting clothes and Sherlock’s self-imposed starvation meant that John felt like he could crack the boy in half. Or get stabbed by one of Sherlock’s protruding ribs. After several seconds, he let go. Sherlock looked stunned, but also, though John doubted he would ever admit it to anyone, he seemed moved. 

John smiled softly at him. This amazing boy could dismantle a drug ring with just a few minutes of examination, but he had no one to look after him. Or anyone who appreciated what his mind could unlock. John gently squeezed Sherlock’ arm in companionship, “I’ll see you at school Sherlock. And for God’s sake, after you’re done sleeping, either get something to eat or come over and I’ll make something for you.” 

Sherlock nodded. It didn’t seem like he was able to do anything else. “I will. Goodnight, John.” With that, he walked into his house.

John sighed and headed back to his own home. While he felt like that had been the best way to end the night after their little escapade, he still felt bereft. It was like the universe had handed him a golden opportunity for something, and he’d let it slip through his fingers.

John shook it off. He was just tired and strung out on adrenaline. Once he got some sleep, he’d be fine.

He stepped through his doors, and someone nearly barreled him over. John was back on high alert before he registered who it was. 

“John!” Mary hugged him tightly before letting go. “Where have you been? Janine said she went into Sherlock’s room to check on you both but you were gone! The police were called! I thought you were--”

“I’m fine, Mary, really.” John tried to reassure her. Something ugly buzzed at the back of his mind that he didn’t want to have to explain everything to her. He just wanted to rest. But that was beyond unfair to her. 

“I promise; I’ll tell you everything. It was incredible. I just need to go collapse on the bed before I do it here on the floor.” He squeezed her arms reassuringly. He also gave her the smile that she called ‘cute but not saccharine’. 

Mary looked dubious, but she saw that he was only partially joking so she nodded. “Okay, but at the first sign of consciousness you’re going to tell me everything. I’m not even going to look at the news before you give me the full story.” 

John nodded, tired but grateful. “First sign, you’ve got it.” He trudged off to bed, kicking off his shoes along the way. 

His face hit the pillow. His last thought was how he had been heading for Sherlock’s house as if he intended to sleep there. But that was silly. He was just being polite, walking the kid back to his home to make sure he didn’t topple on his front step.

John didn’t feel convinced, even to himself.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays!

The weekend passed in a blur. While John definitely caught up on all of the sleep he missed, he certainly missed out on his intended plans to stay cooped up inside of his house until the inevitable flurry of questions of Monday.

As it happened, the maelstrom found him. He answered all of Mary’s questions about where he’d been and what he’d been up to. She definitely had a few choice words to say about going off on a dangerous escapade with a teenager, but John was surprised when she said, “Still, if it put that smile back on your face, the one where you’re proud of something you’ve done, then I suppose I’ll call it a win.”

John had felt his heart turn tender for her in a way that it hadn’t done for some time. It was Mary who had suggested they have Sherlock over for a post-celebratory meal, when their phone started to ring. 

It didn’t stop ringing for several hours, and someone was constantly at their door. The local press, and even some not-local reporters, had finally gotten the address and number of Doctor John Watson, the only other witness to an intensive standoff with a drug gang. The first witness was a minor without a known legal guardian, and therefore couldn’t be questioned.

John cursed the prattler with every fiber of his being. It could have been Janine that had divulged, but John knew how doggedly protective nurses got over patient confidentiality. He strongly suspected that it was the officer that Sherlock had blabbed his name to last night. 

He was probably the one who had at least mentioned John to the press, or maybe even gave up all that he knew for a few hundred quid and a promise of his face in the paper. John didn’t know, and didn’t particularly care. All that he knew was that he wasn’t going to be getting a moment’s peace.

Woefully underprepared to deal with this, Mary and John resolved to ignore it. When that did absolutely nothing, John opened his door and said, “Right then, you get three questions. After that I’m shutting this door, and if I hear another knock or shout at my window I’m ringing the police.”

Most had been miffed, but a few were amused by his stipulations. After a lot of shouting and talking over one another, John chose the best ones. The three questions went, “Did you know anything about the gang beforehand? Did you have a plan after entering the warehouse? Was Sherlock Holmes really the one who organized their downfall?”

John responded, “No, no, and yes. No further questions.”

He shut the door to very loud and colorful protests. When he turned around, Mary pressed up against him. 

“You know, I’ve never had sex with a celebrity before,” she grinned at him. John grinned back.

It had been a while since either of them had taken the initiative. He wasn’t going to pass up this chance. 

He was literally in the middle of things, and that was when his doorbell wouldn’t stop bloody ringing. “That’s _it_.” John shouted as he reluctantly pulled away and snatched one of the sheets off of their bed. 

“Sod the police, I will damn well throw you tossers out into the middle of the street, and you can put that picture on your front page for all I--”

John stopped himself mid-tirade when he swung open the door. Sherlock was standing there with his finger firmly pressed against the doorbell button. His face swung up in pleased triumph, “Oh good, I knew it wasn’t brok--.”

It was Sherlock’s turn to drop the end of his sentence. They were both unable to move their eyes from each other. John frantically tried to remember how speech worked. Sherlock continued to just…stare.

“What the _hell_ Sherlock? Why are you trying to break my doorbell?” 

Sherlock seemed to be jerked back to life with the question. He answered offhandedly, “You weren’t answering your phone. May I come in?” 

“You don’t normally ask for permission,” John sniped. “No, no no,” his hand shot out to block Sherlock’s entrance, “that wasn’t an invitation.”

Sherlock tilted his head to the side, “It wasn’t?”

“Sherlock,” John tried not to growl at the teenager, “could you maybe come back later?”

Sherlock’s eyes suddenly darted down to the ground. His foot ground into the pavement a little bit, and he wrung his hands before he realized what he was doing and immediately stopped. “Well…I was just. I was wondering, if perhaps, you wanted to. Celebrate.” 

“…Celebrate?”

“Yes, well. It was a successful case. You helped me immeasurably. In point of fact, you’ve been nothing _but_ helpful since I’ve arrived here. So, I just thought we could…go out. Somewhere. To commemorate the experience.”

John felt his heart twinge in sympathy. He’d been so busy ‘celebrating’ with Mary, that he had completely forgotten to make plans with Sherlock, who wouldn’t have anyone to revel with in this victory. John had been dodging questions from the press all day, and yet here was the one person who would love nothing more than to crow about his achievements. 

John briefly thought about Sherlock standing in front of a group of reporters, and had to suppress his smirk at the image of him demolishing nosy journalists on live television. 

He noticed Sherlock had been staring at him hopefully. Apparently catching John literally with his trousers down had done nothing to deter him from wanting to spend some time together. John sighed, and tried to ignore the expression spreading across Sherlock’s face that looked an awful lot like smug triumph.

“Wait here,” John ordered before he closed the door. 

He struggled to come up with a good excuse for Mary. This had been the first time in a long time that they had been intimate, but John felt like Sherlock deserved some company after all that he had done. 

John walked through the door without so much as a sentence formed, only to find Mary close to completely clothed. 

“Hey, so,” Mary said with a smile that John guessed was supposed to be reassuring, “it’s not that I’m not keen, picking up where we left off, but I have a pretty early shift tomorrow so--”

“Sherlock’s here,” John interrupted. Which didn’t seem fair. He hadn’t even gone through the trouble of coming up with a good excuse. At least Mary was trying.

“Oh,” Mary looked surprised. John hoped he was just imagining the hint of relief in her features. “That’s…unexpected. The press isn’t bothering him I hope?”

John shook his head, “He’s here to celebrate. I was wondering if it would be okay if he came inside? He could tell the story better than I could anyway.” 

“Sure, of course,” Mary nodded. Then she looked at John and grinned, “Maybe not while you’re going for the toga look though?”

John snorted. “Yeah, yeah, it’s what I deserve I guess. Try to be intimidating and I end up nearly flashing a student.” 

Mary laughed as she passed by him. She gave him a kiss on the cheek and said, “Put some clothes on handsome, I’ll go make sure Sherlock wasn’t traumatized.”

As John pulled on his trousers and buttoned up his shirt, he couldn’t help but remember the way Sherlock had seemed unable to take his eyes off of him. ‘Probably just shock,’ John thought to himself. 

He walked back into the living room, where he fully expected Sherlock to be talking Mary’s ear off about their escapade. Instead, both of them were sitting apart from one another. Mary looked awkward while Sherlock appeared bored.

“Uhm,” John broke the silence. 

Sherlock stopped staring at the wall to smile at John, while Mary’s body loosened in relief. 

“So, uh, how about we order in some pizza?” 

Mary nodded and reached for her mobile, but then Sherlock interrupted, “We’re not leaving?”

Mary stared at Sherlock, and then swung around to John. 

“What? No, Sherlock we’re all going to celebrate together,” John hastily answered. Had Mary really thought he was going to ditch her? 

“Oh,” Sherlock said. “Alright then, that’s fine,” Sherlock nodded while his shoulders tried to curl inwards. As if his body could shield him from disappointment. 

He looked like every mopey teenager that hadn’t gotten his way. Which made John’s eyes narrow in suspicion. 

“Sherlock, a word?” John curtly requested as he jerked his head towards the kitchen. 

Sherlock blinked in surprise, but obediently stood up. 

“Mary, go ahead and call for delivery. Anything you’re allergic to?” He asked Sherlock. No sense in killing his guest, even if he was about to get a stern lecture. 

“No, but I’m not fond of mushrooms.” Sherlock said, and he looked a little amused at the question. 

“Duly noted. We’ll be done in a second Mary,” John said as he led Sherlock into the kitchen, and left Mary looking utterly befuddled.

When they were alone, John closed the thin door. It was a paltry barrier, so he kept his voice low as he asked, “Alright, tell me you’re not doing what I think you’re doing?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “Well, that would depend entirely on what it is you think I’m doing. I’m observant, Doctor Watson, I’m not a mind reader.”

“Out there,” John pointed behind himself, “you were acting like a kicked puppy because I had suggested we stay in. Were you just trying to manipulate me into leaving my _wife_ behind for us to go celebrating?”

Sherlock didn’t say anything. John continued to stare at him unrelentingly until Sherlock finally admitted, “It wasn’t like she was a part of the operation!”

“Sherlock,” John barked. He flinched and waited for the inquiry, but he heard Mary’s voice as she ordered their food, so he quietly continued, “She’s a part of my life. She helped smooth the way for my visitation when you were ‘overdosing’, and she has been incredibly understanding about even joining you on that crazy ordeal in the first place. So, if you want to celebrate with me, and not wait until later, then you will be cordial. Or you can go back to your house and we can do this some other time.”

Sherlock’s face twisted into something sour. It looked harsher than displeasure, an expression that promised vicious repercussions if it was left to fester. John’s mouth opened, possibly to ask what was wrong, or demand that he stop. But the boy took a deep breath, and it was gone so quickly that John wasn’t sure if he had seen it. 

Sherlock unclenched his hands and said, “I’m sorry John. Truly, I am. I just wanted—it made sense to want to celebrate alone.” 

Sherlock’s eyes shimmered with a hurt he didn’t understand. John felt a pang of sympathy that he tried to mold into something more constructive. It wouldn’t do for Sherlock to think John really _would_ capitulate every time he looked miserable. 

“You should have asked first,” John said, “it’s been insane today, and I can’t guarantee I’m always available, but I’ll try to answer my phone from now on.” He hesitated, but knew it was only a matter of time before he conceded the next part anyway, “Tomorrow, after school, we’ll go and celebrate alone. I promise. Whatever you had planned.”

Sherlock smiled at him, and John tried not to find it endearing. He didn’t need to make himself an even bigger pushover. 

Mary knocked on the kitchen door. John opened it and smiled in apology. 

“Delivery should be here soon,” she said, “they were pretty excited about it after I mentioned your name for the order. Hopefully they won’t try and chat our ears off or ask for a selfie.” 

Mary looked around John’s shoulder, “They might be doubly insufferable when they realize you’re here. Unless, you didn’t want to stay?”

“I’d like to,” Sherlock answered, “if you’ll still have me. I’m sorry about earlier.”

Mary smiled, “Don’t worry about it. I can certainly understand the need to have John for yourself.”

That seemed to establish their truce. The delivery man did manage to get a selfie with John while Sherlock hid somewhere in the house. 

The dinner passed with ease. Sherlock retold the story of their operation with much greater attention to detail. He didn’t embellish like John would have, but the circumstances were exciting enough without it. 

Mary was captivated, and loved every bit of it. Sherlock eventually seemed to warm up in response to her appreciation. After dinner, they decided to watch a movie. It was Sherlock’s choice, since he was the guest of honor.

After looking over their DVD collection, Sherlock selected a classic James Bond movie. 

“Oh, lucky,” John commented as Mary put it in the player, “this is one of my favorites.”

“Yes, I know,” Sherlock said. 

John looked over at him, “What do you mean?”

“It’s one of the ones with the least amount of dust, and the spine has some creases. You’re often unable to watch movies with Mrs. Watson due to your conflicting schedules. So when you decide to watch a film alone, you usually pick this one, or one like it. It wasn’t difficult to figure out.”

John felt like he should stop staring soon, or else it would turn into something uncomfortable. Mary cracked apart his thoughts when she said, “That is so bizarre. Brilliant, but bizarre. I don’t know how you have gotten used to that John.” 

John knew she meant it in a good-natured way. Mary had always expressed herself in the most honest way possible, and came off sounding a little brusque for it occasionally. Still, the implication of Sherlock’s intelligence being seen as a party trick or an odd quirk prickled at his skin like a scratchy sweater. 

John forced his annoyance away and chuckled, “Well, I don’t think I ever will.” He grinned at Sherlock, sure that his amazement was evident on every part of his face. He caught Sherlock’s transformation from irritation to something far softer that John couldn’t name.

Mary sat next to him, which blocked his view of Sherlock, who sat by himself in the armchair. He put an arm around Mary, and managed to not look over and gauge Sherlock’s reactions for most of the film. 

He didn’t have to worry, as Sherlock didn’t last long in trying to remain silent on the matter. “Good lord you have an appalling taste for cinema.”

John’s startled laughter bent him forward. “What? What are you talking about?” 

“Oh do I really need to spell it out?” Sherlock waved his hands at the screen, which indicated it was the whole of the matter and not a portion. “The acting is awful, the effects are laughable, the plot is contrived, and the score is simplistic! How could you possibly like this?”

“Oi,” John argued, “I will have you know that this is a classic film. Built on the merits of fine British action heroes, and the joy of watching things explode.” 

Sherlock groaned and tried to melt into his seat to escape. “If I had known you were this unfastidious I would have suggested we stare at the wall instead.” 

“You would have tried to put your head through the wall after two minutes,” John countered, “at least this way you have something to complain about.” 

Sherlock tried to scoff in disbelief, but it quickly morphed into laughter without his permission. John joined him, but was quickly startled when Mary gently elbowed him in the ribs. 

“Alright, pipe down you two,” she teased, “some of us are still trying to watch.”

“The ‘why’ part of that statement escapes me,” Sherlock said, but he quieted down. 

John fell silent, but for different reasons. Despite having her right next to him, John had felt like she had slipped out of existence during his and Sherlock’s minor spat. 

They finished the film with only minor grumbling from Sherlock’s side. It seemed all too soon before the night ended, and Mary was in the kitchen cleaning up. 

Sherlock shuffled his shoes across the floor and said, “Well, thank you for dinner. I’m afraid I can’t extend gratitude for the movie.”

John chuffed a laugh. “Yeah, yeah, you can pick it next time genius.”

“Next time?” Sherlock arched an eyebrow. It wasn’t until the offer was already made, but John knew there would be a repeat of movies and takeout. Except…

“Yeah, and uh, we’ll have it at your place.”

“We?” Sherlock asked, and this time he stared at John like he was testing him. It was unnerving, but also slightly thrilling.

“Just me,” John clarified. “We’ll make it a guy’s night.” For some reason, John felt the need to include, “Of course, you’ll have to come visit Mary and I every once in a while. I don’t trust for a second that you actually cook for yourself when I’m not around.”

Sherlock smirked, and he looked deeply pleased. He rocked back and forth a little bit before he said, “Well then, I’ll see you at school tomorrow. Until next time, Doctor Watson.”

He left with a little wave behind him as he walked next door. John smiled and felt something warm drip into his heart. 

He twitched when Mary suddenly slid behind him and said, “He’s a bit blunt at times, but he’s a good kid.” 

John smiled, “Yeah, he is.” 

“I understand if you’re protective of him, and want to watch over him.” John turned around, surprised. Mary looked at him with understanding, and the insight that seemed to come naturally to her. “If you want to have some quality time with him, without me being around, I promise I don’t mind.”

John felt gratitude, but he also felt a small sting of shame. Even if he hadn’t gotten her approval, John knew he would have gone to see Sherlock anyway. 

He hugged Mary close and said, “You’re too good to me.”

She snorted into his hair, “Oh shut up. I’m no better than you are to me.” John felt the barb dig a little deeper. 

That night, as they laid next to each other, John couldn’t stop thinking about the possibilities of what he and Sherlock would do next time they saw each other outside of school.

Of course, that would only happen if they could get away from the general public. The next day, John was nearly hounded by the press standing outside of the school, and his coworkers and the students were no better. 

Everywhere he went he was asked endless questions, bombarded with congratulations, and told how proud they were that he had managed to ‘set Sherlock straight’. Those last comments had him gritting his teeth, but he bore it well. 

Everyone shuffled off to class as soon as the bell rang, and John let his phone ring to voicemails. Molly came in looking a little harried. 

“I guess they thought I had some insight into the whole thing,” she explained while trying to look a little more presentable, “what with being your coworker and all. But they stopped bothering me when I refused to say anything, or when I told them that I only knew as much as they did.”

“They didn’t touch you did they?” John asked, ready to turn this whole debacle into an outright lawsuit. John had never been a fan of the press, and being the center of their attention did nothing but reinforce the sentiment. 

“No, no,” Molly quickly reassured, “just pushy. In the non-literal sense. They’re all just…we’re a quiet town,” she offered by way of explanation. “They’re hungry for something aside from the upcoming school plays and community charity events.” 

“Seems like this place is just as restless as everywhere else,” John pointed out. “You did have school kids pushing drugs to other students.”

Molly blushed like she was embarrassed on their behalf. “Yes well, that’s kind of the point. Nobody even knew the kids were _taking_ drugs. Sherlock was the only one who looked like he was. I’d heard the principal was planning to expel him for it.”

John spluttered on his ill-timed sip of coffee. 

Molly kept talking to keep him from going on a rampage, “It’s all fixed now! Apparently, the paper put in the part about how Sherlock had been undercover, and everyone put two and two together. He’s going to ask Sherlock to be a guest speaker for an anti-drug campaign, now that everyone thinks we desperately need it.”

John mopped up his coffee with a napkin and wryly said, “I think a formal apology is the better way to go, or else they really _will_ expel him when he’s given a microphone.” 

“Yes, well,” Molly laughed, “that will be a little hard, since they can’t stop singing his praises in the paper.” She waved around a newspaper, and handed it to him.

John skimmed over it, picking up most words like ‘protégé’, ‘pride of the school’, and ‘gifted genius’. John couldn’t help but acerbically recall these same teachers whispering about Sherlock’s observations in the staff lounge like he was practicing black magic. 

But he supposed that if Sherlock’s life was going to be made simpler with this sort of mild infamy, then John could stand some hypocrisy. 

When Sherlock joined him for lunch, he immediately started complaining about the attention. “If they start bowing in the halls, I’m homeschooling myself,” Sherlock vowed as he picked at his half of John’s sandwich. 

“It will die down,” John promised as he passed over his apple. Getting Sherlock to eat was a bit of a gamble. The best tactic was to try a variety of things and consider it a success if Sherlock showed interest in it. In this case, Sherlock munched on a few bites of the fruit before he spoke. 

“Hopefully soon, I want to come here without getting accosted.” Even though Sherlock’s tone was derisive, it was not accompanied by a sneer. 

“You like it,” John said with a smile. He knew he was right when Sherlock looked at him in surprise. “You like the admiration.” 

“Wha—I do not!” Sherlock protested. He shoved the sandwich away out of spite but kept the apple. He really must have been hungry.

“You so do. You like being recognized for your genius, you great big drama queen.” John giggled at his own teasing. He saw the way Sherlock’s ears were turning pink and stopped from keeping it up. 

Sherlock wasn’t just embarrassed, he looked ashamed. 

“Sherlock,” John apologized in his tone, “there’s nothing wrong with enjoying being appreciated.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh yes, because the opinions and regard from others has been something I’ve strived to achieve for years. Couldn’t you tell by my relentless pandering to the masses?”

“Being recognized for your work, and knowing you did something incredible, isn’t the same as conforming to every teenager with an opinion,” John sternly said. “You’ve always been brilliant, but now people are finally paying attention to that. Weren’t you sick of people not recognizing your gifts?”

Sherlock suddenly caught his gaze, “You did.”

John felt like he’d just been found guilty, but he didn’t even know what he had been accused of. He tried to think of some way to respond to that, but opted for a subject change when his mind came up blank, “Have you thought about doing this as a career?”

Sherlock snorted, “What? Being an undercover teenaged drug addict? I think you’ll find there’s not much use for it outside the one application.” 

“No, I mean,” John suddenly knew that what he was about to suggest would sound ridiculous, but it was too late to stop, “becoming a policeman.”

Sherlock spat out his apple bite so he could have the room to laugh. “Oh, yes, certainly. That’s what I want to do with my life. Join a career that’s filled with busywork, red tape, ridicule, and at best chasing an idiot who couldn’t outrun or outsmart the _police_. Try again John. And this time, please try to do better than an online career quiz.”

John rolled his eyes, but conceded the point. He didn’t share the derision Sherlock did, but he couldn’t see Sherlock in a police uniform issuing out speeding tickets or dragging drunks into a holding cell either.

“A detective then,” John tried. 

Sherlock tilted his head to mull over the idea. “Mm, better, but still no. Aside from having to join the police force anyway for the required experience, I’d still have to deal with,” he waved his hand in dismissal, “people. Normal crimes. Not to mention that my, let’s call it ‘strained’, relationships with superiors would mean I would more than likely be assigned petty robberies and boring murders out of spite.”

“Sorry, did you just say ‘boring’ murders?” 

Sherlock smirked, “Those exist John, don’t pretend like they don’t.”

John shook his head out of fond exasperation. “Well, I’ve come up short then.”

“I’m sure that happens a lot.”

“Oi. You get _one_ short joke pass. After that, I will make you watch every Bond movie in existence.”

Sherlock laughed again, and John smiled with him. He was struck with the urge to say something. John knew he shouldn’t fluff up the kid’s ego like this, but he needed to make sure that Sherlock understood this.

“Whatever you decide to do Sherlock, I know you’re going to be great at it. Brilliant, even. And I’ll support you every step of the way.” 

Sherlock’s smile turned small and soft. It seemed he was hard pressed to come up with a response to such obvious sentiment. 

John helped him out by turning back onto safer topics, and soon their lunch break ended. 

The school day was nearly finished, and John was almost done with his paperwork, when Molly politely knocked on his office door before she entered.

“Sorry John, but there’s a phone call for you in the teacher’s lounge.”

He groaned, “You know, I disconnected my phone line for a reason. Is it an emergency?”

She rubbed her hands together, “Not precisely? It’s a man, he says he’s related to Sherlock and that he would like to talk with you.”

For a second, John felt a protective rage surge inside of him. Sherlock had told him his parents were dead, so for a reporter to try and pose as a relative to get a scrap of information was beyond disgusting. But then he remembered that Sherlock had a brother. One that had kicked him out of the house to live in some nowhere town for his ‘best interests’. 

If this was the same man, then John was also interested in speaking with him. 

“Alright, I’ll be right there. You can go on home Molly, this can be pushed off until tomorrow.” 

Molly nodded and quickly left with her things. Despite her statement of not having been involved with Sherlock’s plan, John was sure she was just as tired from the attention as he was. 

Thankfully, the novelty seemed to have worn off within the school, or maybe the students and staff were all too eager to get home to care. 

John took his time as he put on his coat. He planned to leave right after the phone call, and didn’t mind making the mysterious brother wait for him to pick up. 

Just as he finished locking his office door, the entrance to the infirmary opened.

“Doctor John Watson, I presume?”

John startled, and turned around. The man was dressed in a well-cut suit, and looked as comfortable as John would have been in sweats. He leaned on a high-quality umbrella that was placed between his feet like a cane. John wondered if he had missed a weather update. 

“Yes,” John answered without hesitation. His name was on the door after all. “Sorry, but can this wait? I have a call on hold.” 

“No need to worry about that,” the man said smoothly. John was hesitant to even call him a man, since his age seemed to be placed in that awkward stage of maturity well beyond a teenager, but not quite having reached his respected thirties. “I was the one on the line.”

John’s emotional walls slammed down. John realized he had done this on purpose, to try and get John off balance. Suddenly John’s little power play with keeping him on hold was exposed as a clear petty gesture.

“Oh, well then. How can I help you, Mycroft?”

If he was surprised that John already knew his name, he didn’t show it. John had the distinct impression he didn’t reveal any emotion unless he needed to. 

Mycroft tapped his umbrella twice on the floor. “That remains to be seen, Doctor Watson. As it stands, this is more of a social call than I’m used to making. I wanted to see what kind of person my brother would want as his, how to put this, ‘partner in crime’?”

He reached inside of his jacket to pull out a folded up newspaper. John didn’t need to see the headline to know it was this morning’s report. Mycroft looked down at the print and read, “The local genius was assisted by his school’s physician, Doctor John Watson. Who, at this time, has not responded to our requests for an interview. All that is known about him can be gleaned from his social media, which is sparse at best. We are only able to report that he has worked at Gladstone Academy for less than a year, and lived in London prior to his arrival.”

John rolled his eyes, “Yes, I read the paper. I really don’t see what that has to do with you being here?”

“Then the only thing you truly know about me is my relation to Sherlock, along with my name. For you see, it would be enough to catch my attention that Sherlock would have found anyone at all to include in his reckless schemes. What pulls me away from my busy schedule, is something else entirely.”

John didn’t like the way Mycroft’s tone had gone as cold as his eyes. Without realizing it, John shifted his weight so it rested evenly over his feet.

Mycroft held up his copy of the newspaper, “You may want to read this story again Doctor Watson. I think you’ll find the continuation rather enlightening.” He easily tossed it onto a bed near John’s hip.

John hesitated to follow even an indirect order from this man. Still, curiosity won over his trivial pride, and he reached to open it up. 

A low-resolution photograph slid out. It was grainy, clearly taken at a great distance in relation to John’s house, with the zoom at its maximum. Sherlock’s back was to the camera, but it was clearly him, just based on his height and hair. John was the focus of the photo. Clad only in a sheet wrapped around his waist, giving an indiscernible look to the teenager at his door.

“What the hell is this?” John asked when he stopped hearing static.

“I should think that is rather obvious.”

“Did you get this from the press? Have you been…have you been _spying_ on me? On Sherlock?” Shock was rapidly disintegrating under anger. It was a more familiar and productive emotion.

“It’s interesting that your first instinct is to lash out rather than defend yourself,” Mycroft replied. He watched John with the cool disinterest of an exterminator watching a rodent futilely squirm with its neck snapped in a trap. 

“That’s because there’s nothing to defend. I’m fucking married,” John spat, and held up his left hand for emphasis. 

An auburn eyebrow raised itself to declare how unimpressed it was with that excuse.

“For God’s sake, he’s a teenager!” 

“I really do wish you would say something a bit more original. These would be laughable defenses, but I find that I’m not very amused.”

John leaned both hands on the bed like he was ready to vault over it. “Nothing, like that, is happening,” he growled the words between them so they filled up the empty spaces, and left no room for uncertainty.

Mycroft continued to stare at him. If John hadn’t seen so much worse in his lifetime, he would have been intimidated by the look that clearly said there would be no evidence of a body. 

Eventually, Mycroft huffed out a breath of concession. “Very well then. Still not original, but your honesty is refreshing, if nothing else.”

A modicum of the tightness in John’s shoulders loosened, but he repeated, “Have you been spying on us?”

“No, not on you, Doctor Watson. But I have contingencies for my little brother, to be sure he is following the rules of his rehabilitation.”

“His _what_?” As soon as the question left his mouth, John regretted it. He was still too unbalanced by the visit, and the implication that he and Sherlock were—had been--. Well. 

Which, John thought, may have been the point of bringing it up. It was much easier to have him stumble over his words out of blindsided shock, rather than press him for any information through a typical interrogation.

John was beginning to see why Sherlock didn’t talk about his brother except in snide tones.

“I see.” It may have been John’s bias at work, but he was certain that a ghost of a smirk had flitted over Mycroft’s thin lips. “So Sherlock didn’t tell you the circumstances of his relocation?” 

John hated himself for how easily he was falling for these ploys. He could just walk away. He could go find Sherlock, who was undoubtedly waiting by his car, and make sure these two didn’t meet. But he had been offered a chance to prove this smug bastard wrong, and find out more about Sherlock in the process. 

He didn’t have the willpower to pass up both.

“He said that you kicked him out for his ‘own betterment’. That he was behaving irrationally, you know, after becoming an _orphan_. So you sent him away to nowhere in the hopes that he would either calm down or make something of himself.”

Mycroft’s lip briefly lifted as he tried to hold back his ire. “A gross oversimplification.” 

“Enlighten me then,” John crossed his arms and stood straight again. He pointedly did not look at the photo still lying on the sheets.

“Sherlock’s emotions weren’t irrational, doctor, they were self-destructive. He will vehemently deny suicide, but any fool could have seen he would not have lasted more than five years with the habits he picked up.” His eyes flickered down to the paper, then he was back to staring through John’s skin and into his core.

“An undercover addict, that’s how he infiltrated their ranks, correct?” He didn’t wait for John’s confirmation, “It was, I am afraid, less of an act and more of a performed memory.”

John felt the floor dip down. He kept himself steady, but his voice wavered when he asked, “You mean, he actually--”

“The specifics of the narcotics escape me, I’m afraid.” John knew that was a lie. “What I do know is that my brother tried to pump himself full of pharmaceuticals to try and understand what it ‘felt like’. I managed to find him in a heroin den after three days.”

The leather gloves covering Mycroft’s hands creaked as they clutched the umbrella. Mycroft was no longer trying to bore into John’s soul. His focus was on some middle point between them, caught in a memory that would be seared into his mind until age or death freed him from it.

John felt like he should say something. It was a disconcerting feeling to suddenly feel sympathy for a person he would have gladly punched in the kidneys two seconds ago. 

Mycroft cleared his throat to break the silence first, and continued. “After he recovered, for what had to have been the third time, I gave him an ultimatum. He could either go to a rehabilitation facility and experience controlled mundanity day in and day out, or he could move into a new town where no one knew of his…incidents, and keep his own nose clean. Under my discreet supervision of course.”

“You mean,” John’s hand curled into a fist at his side, “Sherlock knew he was being watched?”

“Yes,” Mycroft’s eyes refused to move from John’s face, “he did. Certainly not who or when, as that would defeat the purpose of a tail. If Sherlock can lose his security, and get up to god knows what, then his coming here becomes moot. He would have to be placed into rehab, for his own sake.”

There was a charged pause between them. John felt his nails dig into his palms. “What do you want, Mycroft?”

Mycroft huffed a small surprised laugh. “My team is good at surveillance, but my brother is able to hide many things from a great deal of people. It’s how he was able to act ‘undercover’ without my knowledge. Those assigned to him merely thought he was sick with the flu towards the end. They aren’t close to him; therefore they don’t know what signs to watch out for.”

“No.” 

The eyebrow had raised itself again, “I haven’t mentioned a figure.”

“Don’t bother. I’m not going to spy on your brother just because you don’t trust him enough.”

“Ah, I see,” Mycroft’s eyes slid down to the photograph like they were magnetized to it, “so you believe Sherlock is capable of making adult decisions?”

John breathed out for three solid seconds. He unclenched his jaw, reached down, and shredded the picture in two.

Mycroft coolly said, “I have--”

“Yes, I know you have copies, you snobby prick. It was symbolic. Whatever the fuck you think is going on, and I take the greatest petty pleasure in saying this, you are dead wrong.” 

Mycroft was back to looking at him like he was a cockroach that had somehow learned human speech. “Oh, am I?”

“Yes,” John said, “you are completely one hundred percent wrong. Frankly, it’s none of your damned business how I think of him, but he is the most brilliant student, no, the most brilliant _person_ I’ve ever met. He doesn’t belong in this shitty town any more than a fish belongs in a desert. If he needs someone to tell him that every once in a while, so he doesn’t feel like his gifts are a curse, then so be it. I’ll happily take a phone call at four in the morning, with him yammering endlessly about mold spores, if it means that he gets a chance to feel appreciated. And that’s where it ends, Mycroft. That’s it.” 

He didn’t feel winded from that outburst. Quite the contrary, he felt like he could go on another tangent or six before he finally ran out of examples, and air, to explain what Sherlock meant to him. Since that would somewhat undermine his point, he stayed silent. 

Mycroft hummed a small note that could have been equal parts approval or disbelief. 

Something restless and unspent told John that he needed to do something quickly, or he might punch Mycroft in the face without being justifiably provoked. “We’re done here,” John said as he grabbed his coat. If Sherlock wasn’t before, he was definitely looking for John now. He needed to go find him before these two crossed paths.

“I’ll call off my team.” 

John paused with only one arm in a sleeve. 

“If you agree to give me updates, nothing untoward, just to inform me of how he’s doing, then I will relocate his handlers onto more productive projects.” 

John wanted to ask just what the hell Mycroft did for a living, but he refrained. “I’m not going to be your spy. Trying to bully me was your second mistake. The first was putting him here to begin with, like a fucked up solitary confinement tactic.”

“Of course not,” Mycroft said like the very idea was preposterous, “a spy would require payment. And you want nothing to do with my money, isn’t that correct?” 

John had to concentrate before he could unclench his jaw. 

Mycroft sighed regrettably, “I worry about him Doctor Watson, constantly. I should have led with that, rather than skipping to the intimidation.”

“If you’re trying to guilt me--” John warned him. 

Mycroft held up his hand in a placating gesture. “No. I am only stating a fact. I am not even asking for a daily update. Merely…if you notice something amiss, please inform me. I think you’ll find that, if he does slip, you’ll need all the resources you can get.”

John didn’t say anything. Mycroft took that as a positive sign. He pulled out a small white card, and placed it on the counter beside him. 

“If you require anything in regards to my brother’s wellbeing, call and it will be seen to.”

“I haven’t agreed to anything,” John pointed out mulishly. 

“I think you will agree to my rather lax and generous terms, before I leave this office to depart for the next train, Doctor Watson.”

“And why is that?”

“Because, like me, you don’t wish to see Sherlock hindered in any way. When he knows that strangers are watching his every move, he’s distracted, listless. With your cooperation, he won’t need to obfuscate his personality for the sake of privacy.”

John had nothing to say to that. He stared at the torn picture lying on the paper sheets, and saw his own blurred face. His expression wasn’t clear, but John knew he was looking at Sherlock in open wonder.

“Small updates,” John conceded. He refused to look up and see Mycroft’s smug face. “And I’m not keeping this from him,” John said with a tone that did not allow for bartering.

“You can tell him the full extent of our conversation when he arrives. I imagine he’ll be thrilled to be rid of my, what does he call them, ‘cronies’.”

Mycroft pulled a buzzing and sleek phone out of his pocket. He looked annoyed, then his frown cleared away, “Ah, it seems he has figured out that I’m not planning to meet you at your house. That, I’m afraid, hastens my departure.”

He paused in smoothing out the invisible wrinkles in his suit. “Sherlock will assume you’ll be easy to sway because of your sentiment towards him. But I’m beginning to see that you’re rather stubborn when it comes to his welfare.”

Before John could retort a defense, Mycroft strolled out the door and twirled his umbrella. “Goodbye, Doctor Watson. I’m sure we will be keeping in touch.”

The door clicked shut. 

John took a few moments to breathe out. It helped to avoid an unnecessary mess in the infirmary by smashing everything to pieces. A whirl of complicated feelings churned his insides. John’s mind ticked over every revelation he’d learned. His understanding of Sherlock, Mycroft’s accusations, and John’s confused feelings kept him from establishing any firm hold on reality. Calm slid from him like a live eel, ready to swing around and bite him if given the chance.

After his fifth breath, he crumpled up the torn photograph and shoved it into his pocket. It burned the lining of his jeans. When John entered the number printed on the business card into his phone, he tore it up until the pieces were small enough to satisfy him. 

His car was the only one left in the lot as he walked out. John leaned against it, and waited for Sherlock to meet up with him. Behind his closed eyes, he tried to reconcile the image of a mourning and desperate Sherlock with the one that tried to build combustibles out of baking ingredients. He also thought of the Sherlock that glowed when he knew he had done something wondrous, and was finally able to share that revelation with someone else.

John opened his eyes to the sound of frantic feet on the pavement. Sherlock rounded the corner of the building, with clear intent to sprint for the entrance, but when he saw John he stopped like he’d hit a wall. Sherlock took a few stumbling steps due to his loss of momentum. When he regained his balance, he tried to make his hurried walk toward John seem natural.

“John,” Sherlock panted, “I—uh—the press. You weren’t at your house and I thought--”

“So, your brother is a wanker.”

John expected Sherlock to be amused. Instead, he looked angrier than John had ever seen him. 

“What did he say to you? Did he threaten you? Whatever it is, he’s bluffing, or lying. You don’t have to leave if he’s paid you or anything, it’s not worth it in the long run. Whatever he told you is a lie. No matter what he said.”

“Sherlock,” John said as he reached up to grip Sherlock’s arm. He could feel Sherlock vibrating with coiled tension. “I’m not going anywhere.” John stared into Sherlock’s eyes to get the point across. 

Slowly, the arm he was holding felt less like a power line. John kept it there for a few seconds longer to be sure, and then a bit more to act as a source of comfort. When he let his hand drop to his side, it felt distinctly colder.

“He did tell me some troubling things about you.” John held up his hand to stave off Sherlock’s words, “Really, it’s alright Sherlock. I expected it.”

“You…did?” John felt like he could have slapped the kid, and he wouldn’t look more surprised than he did now.

“Well, yeah,” John used the most sympathetic tone he had. Jesus, had Sherlock never been allowed to show emotion once in his life? “You were, or are, young. You lost your family. Of course you would be upset.”

Sherlock’s face was doing something that John had no way of describing. Whatever was going on in his head, Sherlock finally settled for stolid. “It wasn’t an easy time,” Sherlock admitted. “It…still isn’t.”

John hoped Sherlock saw how earnest he was being when he said, “I understand that. And I am here for you, whenever you need to talk about it.”

Sherlock nodded, but it seemed aloof. John was sure that Sherlock was busy compartmentalizing things that had been locked away inside of his head ever since he moved here. His brother, the only family he had left, had dumped him here and then showed up out of nowhere to try and interrogate his only friend. All while revealing a past that he hadn’t had the chance, or desire, to tell John about.

John was going to throttle Mycroft the next time he saw him, arrangement or no.

“Oh, right,” John cleared his throat. “There was something else.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “He asked you to spy on me, didn’t he?”

“Erm, yes. And I…essentially agreed.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said without inflection. John was immediately ready to say he could call it off, that he was only going to give updates to get the subordinates to stop tailing him, but Sherlock stopped all of that with, “I hope you chose a large figure.”

“I—what? No. I said I would do it for free.”

Sherlock began to look genuinely hurt and John rushed, “Not like that! I just wanted him to get his goons to stop following you around. He seemed to think that having someone ‘close’ to you was better than someone you would eventually spot and slip. So I’m meant to give him updates on how you’re doing every once in a while, that’s all. But I don’t have to. Just say the word and I’ll delete his number.”

John had his phone out in the next second, but Sherlock stopped him with a hand on his wrist. “John, it’s alright,” he said with a fond smile. 

“Are you sure?” John asked. “I mean, I would rather be the one to do it than have some trenchcoated arsehole take pictures, but I don’t exactly feel right giving your brother so much as a ‘Fuck off, he’s doing fine.’” 

Sherlock huffed a laugh, “Well, that’s what he’ll have to be satisfied with. You were right, I did want his henchmen to stop following me, but I could never seem to catch their patterns. He must rotate their shifts.”

John tried to put his phone away, and realized Sherlock was still holding onto his wrist. John tugged pointedly, and Sherlock’s eyes shot down. “Oh, sorry,” Sherlock let go immediately. 

John wondered if Sherlock’s hand felt colder too. That seemed an odd question to ask, so he didn’t say anything.

“You could have asked for money though,” Sherlock mused, “it would have been nice to buy a cattle prod to keep the press at bay.”

John snorted, and then asked, “That’s right, shouldn’t this place be flooded with reporters? I thought I would have to shove my way to my car after work.”

“My brother’s influence, most likely. I try not to dwell on it too much.”

John motioned for Sherlock to get into the car. He was ready to get home, have a beer, and forget that bizarre conversation ever happened. 

“What does your brother do again?”

“I never said,” Sherlock looked like he was already bored with this conversation, half-heartedly answering while he stared out the window of the passenger’s seat. 

John waited for elaboration. He continued to wait for quite a while. Finally, Sherlock noticed they weren’t moving. “Some political position, I’m not sure about the details, but it hardly matters. Whatever the title is, it’s a smoke screen to conceal how far his reach extends.”

“Oh,” John said. Then he started the car. John was beginning to agree with Sherlock that it was best not to think about it. 

“Don’t worry, it’s not like he has full control of the British government.” Sherlock paused, “Yet.” 

“Comforting,” John wryly said. 

“I appreciate it by the way,” Sherlock said in a voice that was barely above a murmur. The only reason John had heard was because they were stopped at a light. 

“Appreciate what?”

“You. Standing up to my brother.” 

John wished he could turn his head to look at Sherlock, but he needed to pay attention to the road. “It’s nothing, Sherlock, really.”

Sherlock was quiet for a little while. Then he spoke like the words needed to come out, “I did have a friend before I moved here. Before my parents…” 

He let the words hang in the air. John gently prompted, “What was his name?”

“Victor. It was hard to describe our friendship, honestly. He was a spoiled brat, but he took pride in the fact that he could keep up with me. Not intellectually,” John snorted at that, “but he took my…let’s call them flaws, in stride.” 

“And you? What did you get out of it?” John couldn’t see Sherlock putting up with someone who just hung around for bragging rights. Like Sherlock’s presence was a torture you had to endure for some kind of initiation.

“I did say ‘friend’ in the singular context John.” 

“Oh, right,” John said. It turned his stomach that Sherlock’s bar was set to ‘tolerated’ in terms of social expectations. “You also keep referring to him in past tense. What happened there?” John’s tone was light enough that Sherlock could wave away the question and it would be an acceptable response. 

Sherlock answered honestly, “After my parents died, and I couldn’t stand Mycroft’s pestering, I tried to find some stability. In a stupid, instinctual response to death I wanted to feel…alive.”

They were in front of John’s house. John turned off the engine, but didn’t move. He felt like if he saw Sherlock’s face, it would destroy the strange feeling of solidarity. “You turned to drugs,” John said without question or accusation.

Sherlock laughed derisively, “No, actually. My first response was not to start partaking in hard narcotics. I was, regrettably, far more pedestrian.”

John thought for a little bit, because it seemed like Sherlock was willing to let him figure out the answer. He thought about a grieving boy, alone, with no one to turn to, and only one person in the world who could make him feel--.

“Oh. Oh!” John winced at himself. He thought he couldn’t have made his reaction more awkward if he had tried. 

“Yep,” Sherlock popped the word. “And, as it turns out, Victor did not, in his words, ‘swing that way’.” John finally looked over. Sherlock’s fingers looked like they were being physically forced to make the air quote motions. “I knew that, of course. Or, I knew that he wasn’t interested in me. I had just,” he shrugged, “wanted normalcy. For a little bit.”

John had nothing to say that didn’t sound like saccharine drivel. He was also, stupidly and weirdly, focused on the revelation that Sherlock was gay. 

“Well, Trevor sounds like an arsehole,” John said in a desperate attempt to relieve the tension. 

Sherlock snorted, “A fairly accurate summation. After he refused, we didn’t…well. To him it was ‘too weird’ to even tolerate my presence.”

John gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, and tried to keep his thoughts from showing on his face. 

“After that is where the drugs came in. The rest you already know, or I assume that Mycroft told you.” 

“Probably, he said that you were burning your candle at both ends. I figured he wasn’t implying you were a pyromaniac. So, uh, was Trevor your first,” he struggled to come up with a word, “you know, first?”

He heard Sherlock turn in his seat to stare at him. John summoned the courage to look over, and saw incredulity in Sherlock’s face. 

“First friend? Yes, in a loose definition. If you mean my first sexual partner, then no, because I just said he _rejected_ me. My first foray into sex also came with the drugs. Before you try and choke out the question, yes, they were also all male. If you want the sordid details then--”

“Jesus! Christ, no!” John didn’t flail, but it was a close thing. “I was trying to figure out if he was the first person you had a crush on, so, yeah, I’m immediately regretting that I wasn’t clear on that, thanks.”

Sherlock silently assessed him before he bluntly asked, “Does my sexuality bother you?”

“What? No! Of course not!”

Sherlock looked at him the same way Mycroft did when John had tried to defend himself. John was beginning to see the resemblance now. “It doesn’t,” John insisted, “I was just, you know, surprised.”

“I made that joke about you asking me out on a date my first day here,” Sherlock pointed out, “That wasn’t a clear enough indication for you?”

“You just said it was a joke,” John reasoned, “I thought your humor was more inappropriate than most, even for a teenager.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows did a thing that John took to mean he was conceding the point. “Seriously, it’s all fine.” John nearly leaned forward to clasp Sherlock’s arm in a reassuring manner. But suddenly the distance seemed too large, like it would take too long for John’s hand to get there. Which would mean the intent would be lost and the results would be awkward. 

Sherlock stared at him again, but this time it wasn’t out of disbelief. He seemed far more analyzing. John was resolved to not feel uncomfortable. 

Sherlock smiled, “All right then. That’s a relief.”

John looked exasperated, “Seriously Sherlock, I can’t think of anything you would do that I wouldn’t approve of.” He immediately backtracked, “As long as, you know, it would fall within normal moral and sane parameters.”

Sherlock laughed at that. “Well, with you as a moral compass I don’t see how I could go wrong.”

The strange tension that had been between them fled. They stepped out of the car, ready to head to their respective homes. 

“Erm,” John hesitated to bring this up, “in the spirit of honesty, you should know something else.”

Sherlock regarded him patiently. John looked around, but didn’t see any bushes gleaming with hidden cameras, or people in trench coats trying to look inconspicuous. He walked around closer to Sherlock, to be sure they weren’t overheard.

“Your brother did try and blackmail me. It was something stupid, and had no real weight if he did try and make it into a scandal, but I thought you should know.” The torn picture in his pocket suddenly felt like a stolen government document. “He tried to imply…that you and I were…” 

He let the words hang between them, unsaid. It felt wrong to say them out loud. He didn’t even know why he was mentioning this. John could have made a huge mistake. Maybe talking about it would make their interactions seem sordid, which would cause Sherlock to become uncomfortable, and then he would never want to talk with John again.

“You know what? Never mind, it isn’t important,” John said at the same time Sherlock went, “He suggested you and I were lovers.”

“I,” John grappled with several things he wanted to say at once. He finally settled on, “Yes.” 

“I see,” Sherlock went quiet. “I can certainly understand how that would be a problem for you, if such a rumor were to spread.”

John scoffed, “Well, yeah, no kidding. I would lose my job, for one thing. Never mind that I’m not your teacher and you’re technically legal, no school in their right mind would want to keep me on. The parent calls alone would drive them to liability cuts.” 

He was rambling. John knew he was just talking nonsense, but he couldn’t seem to stop. That strained silence that had been present after Sherlock revealed he was gay seemed to be hovering at the edges, waiting to swoop in if John were to stop speaking. 

“Is that what’s important?” Sherlock cut in.

“Huh?”

“The age difference and your job. Are those the preeminent concerns for you?”

“I,” John needed to find out why words kept slipping from him today. “I’m married, Sherlock.” Like he didn’t know. As if they weren’t standing outside the door to John’s home right now, where there were two sets of plates, and toothbrushes, and chairs, and a large bed in the downstairs room that hadn’t been a host to coitus in well over a year. As if John wasn’t wearing a ring on his left hand, one that suddenly felt like a link to a chain.

“Yes,” Sherlock slowly said, as if he really was just realizing that fact himself, “you are.” 

Something very important was happening, something that would alter their interactions forevermore. But John couldn’t think of a way to get everything back to the way it was. He felt like a train that had suddenly derailed, and there was no way to get the tracks back. All John could do was float in the loss of solid ground, and wait for the impact. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow John,” Sherlock promised. John wasn’t sure if Sherlock really was done with the conversation, or if he was sparing John the trouble of trying to end it himself. 

John watched him leave and numbly said, “Sure, yeah.” He was certain Sherlock hadn’t heard him.

When John was inside, he made certain Mary wasn’t home before he took a match to the photograph pieces. He watched as they turned to flaky ash in the kitchen sink.


	6. Chapter 6

There was an odd moment at John’s work the next day, when he didn’t want Sherlock to come visit him. Not because he was sick of seeing him, far from it. He just wasn’t sure if their conversations would now be tainted with the strange way they had left things yesterday. 

John kept playing Sherlock’s story about Trevor over and over again in his head. While he was proud and glad Sherlock had decided to open up to him about such a vulnerable time in his life, he also felt strangely uneasy about Sherlock’s weird line of questioning. 

John’s mind was stuck in a loop. One part of the cycle was the heady sense of becoming a close confidant, then where they stood in that relationship, until finally he began to wonder if maybe they had become _too_ close. It didn’t help that he wasn’t sure if these were his own concerns, or ones that were planted by Mycroft’s accusations. 

John’s thoughts started to settle on ‘Maybe I should just talk with Sherlock, to make sure there’s no misunderstandings’, before Molly burst in. 

“Did you see? Did you see? Oh my gosh John I have no idea how you did it, but good for you! Two birds with one stone, eh?”

John blinked at her, “Wh-what?”

“The press! You get them off your back and Sherlock looks like the misunderstood hero. There won’t be a soul who will want to bother him after this, otherwise the whole town will riot in his defense.”

“Molly, what are you talking about?”

Molly’s smile quickly vanished, “Wait you—you mean you don’t know?”

“Know what?” John asked, a tad impatiently. 

“There was a new story printed about Sherlock today. It’s practically a tell-all. Here,” she handed him the newspaper she had been clutching, and John quickly flipped it onto the front page.

The title ‘Boy Wonder Since Birth’ blazoned the top in eye-catching font. With a sinking feeling of understanding and dread, John skimmed over the entire entry. 

It was when he got to ‘Ever since he was a young boy, Sherlock Holmes was figuring out the origins of mud stains on carpets,’ that John exploded, “Mycroft!”

Molly yelped in surprise, “Who?”

“God, no wonder the press were gone this morning. They got all they needed from that stuck up, arrogant, condescending, pompous little--”

“John!” Sherlock’s voice broke through the tirade, and stopped John from turning the paper into shredded confetti. 

“I’m going to bloody well kill him,” Sherlock promised while he shook the paper in the air. Molly held a hand up to her chest, possibly to be sure she still possessed a heartbeat. 

“Did you read this? He remarks that as a child I was ‘reserved but polite’. Polite! I once made a woman cry into her cocktail when I was eight!”

“Now we know why he drove all the way out here,” John bitterly mentioned, “he wanted to be sure he was ahead of the curve when it came to discussions about you. And what better accredited source is there than your own brother? God! This is so asinine. There’s a reason I didn’t want to talk to the press about you, and he just cocks it all up because he thinks he knows best.”

He threw the paper into the bin. When he turned around, he noticed Molly had left the room. Belatedly, John remembered that Molly had never seen him upset or angry before. It probably wasn’t a pretty sight when your coworker started an unprompted heated tirade. 

“What was the reason?” Sherlock asked. His own paper had gone lax. His attention was focused on John’s answer. 

John huffed, his annoyance creeping along his shoulders, “The press tends to make a living off of turning on the people they build up to stardom. Even for a local paper, a hero story may get papers off of the shelves, but a scandal of the same person sells way more.”

“And here I thought you were just trying to be modest.” 

John shrugged his shoulders, “I mean, I’m not crazy about the thought of complete strangers knowing all about my business either. But I’d rather they write me off as a prick than use you as a future media pariah. Which, apparently,” he gestured at the crumpled newspaper, “was all for nothing anyway.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “I really wouldn’t worry about it. Since Mycroft did this, I’m quite certain he has contingencies for his backup plans should someone feel they need a quick headline story with my smeared name attached to it.”

The paper rustled in Sherlock’s hand as he suddenly busied himself with smoothing out its creases. He carefully watched each fold, and didn’t look at John as he said, “You know, you don’t have to try and protect me all the time.”

John blinked, “Oh god, you don’t think I’m being overly smothering again do you?”

“No, no,” Sherlock reassured. His gaze moved the floor, and the paper was being wrung between his hands. “It’s just that you seemed determined to look after my well-being. I’m just reminding you that I’m perfectly capable of watching out for myself.”

“I know that,” John smiled to provide his own reassurance, “but you don’t have to do it alone anymore, remember?”

Sherlock hummed nonchalantly, but he was smiling. The paper was no longer being twisted in between his hands. 

“Are you free tonight?” Sherlock blurted out. 

John’s nerves were eventually going to abandon ship if they kept getting tossed around like this. “I—what?”

“You mentioned, or I mean, you said before, when we were celebrating, that you wouldn’t mind a night with just the two of us. Since I feel the same, and it has been approximately forty-eight hours since you extended the invitation, I thought that this was the socially conventional time to recheck if you wanted to--”

“Yes,” John interrupted. He didn’t know how Sherlock was able to keep breathing at the same time as those rants. He didn’t think he had seen Sherlock take a single breath inward. 

“Oh,” Sherlock looked like he wasn’t sure how to proceed. “Good then.”

John tried to keep himself from smiling at Sherlock’s awkwardness. “Did you have a set time or--?”

“Tonight, yes,” Sherlock looked excited, now that the anxiousness had been banished by John’s agreement. “Around six o clock? We can have dinner.”

“Sure Sherlock,” John nodded, “that sounds great--”

“Fantastic, I’ll see you tonight then.” Sherlock was almost out the door as he said it. 

“Wait! You aren’t coming by for lunch?”

“Of course not,” Sherlock said with confusion, “I have to prepare for tonight.”

“What? Prepare? Sherlock, it’s just dinner. You don’t have to--”

“Sorry John, can’t hear you, already leaving.” Sherlock waved goodbye without looking as he walked away.

“Hang on, what about school?” John rushed towards the door to call after him. Just because he was the talk of the town didn’t mean he could just miss his classes.

“Day off for exemplary behavior,” came the faded reply, “I’ll see you later!”

John laughed and shook his head. He wasn’t sure if he was getting old, or if Sherlock was naturally boundless with energy, but either way he was caught up in the whirlwind of Sherlock’s emotions. It was a little strange that John was perfectly fine with being tossed about by his whims. 

He spent the rest of the day in…not anticipation, not exactly. He didn’t want to call it that. Anticipation implied that it was something he should be nervous about, something that had the potential to disappoint or elate him. It was just a friendly dinner with his student. That was all it was. 

Just a dinner.

If he looked at his clock at least sixteen times within the last hour of his shift, well, he was only bored. He couldn’t be blamed for being eager to go home for that.

He left work early when he realized he wouldn’t have a whole lot of time to get ready. He should freshen up a little bit, change clothes at least. When he made it home and was rifling through his closet, he stopped. What the hell was he doing? 

John was acting like this was a—like he was going on a--. Well, he was behaving like this was more than a dinner. 

He looked down at himself, casual dress slacks and a bland colored jumper. His work clothes were meant to be as professional and unobtrusive as possible. John decided it really was a better idea to change. There was nothing wrong with that. He was allowed to look more like a human and less like he was trying to be the physical embodiment of plain toast. 

John settled on a blue checkered button up and some well-worn jeans. There, much better. He had showered that morning, and his job required little movement, so he knew he smelled fine. He brushed his teeth to avoid any embarrassing lingering remains from lunch, and recombed his hair.

It was five minutes until six when he looked at the clock. He inspected his fingernails, and didn’t see anything stuck underneath them.

Good god, his _fingernails_? What was wrong with him? 

John remembered that he lived with someone else. He sent a text to Mary, letting her know that Sherlock had wanted to go out that night, so he probably wouldn’t be home until later. He failed to mention that it was going to be a dinner. He didn’t know why he left that detail out. Friends had dinner together all the time. 

John’s doorbell rang before he could convince himself to just tell her.

He opened up the door, and was immediately glad that he’d changed. Sherlock wasn’t formally dressed, but he looked sharp in his aubergine shirt and dark jeans. John was impressed that Sherlock could pull of a black bomber jacket so well. On the usual teenagers around the school, it looked like capitalistic overcompensation. On Sherlock, it was a fashionable statement piece.

“Ready to go?” Sherlock asked. 

“I guess that depends on where we’re going,” John said. “Knowing you, I wouldn’t put it past you to suddenly have us eating dinner atop Mount Everest somehow.”

Sherlock smiled, “Relax, it’s in the downtown area. You’ll have to get us there though, I only have my PASS card, I never learned to drive.” 

“Fine by me,” John said as he locked the door. 

John had expected for Sherlock to go for one of the pubs. Instead he was directed towards the only decent, and therefore ritzy, restaurant the town had to offer.

“Angelo’s? Really?” John asked as they stepped out of the car.

“John, I want you to seriously consider our alternatives, and then ask if you can picture me eating a,” he pretended to shudder in horror, “cheeseburger.”

John thought about it, “You know I think you could use one, you’re practically rail thin.” He smiled at Sherlock’s glare and held up his hands, “Alright, I see your point. I just didn’t think that you liked all of the you know,” he gestured at the brick façade and wrought iron lamps on the outside, “pomp and circumstance.”

Sherlock shrugged, “The atmosphere of a restaurant is hardly of consequence. But as added motivation, the owner agreed to give us our own sequestered area so we’re not bothered by other patrons. Besides, the online reviews have consistent positive recommendations for this place.” 

Well, John had always wanted to try it out for himself anyway. He was puzzled when Sherlock walked around to the side rather than going for the entrance to the restaurant.

“Erm,” John said as he pointed in the right direction.

Sherlock motioned his head for John to follow him. “This way, I don’t want to be stopped by the other patrons.”

John admitted that he had a point there. The reason for a secluded spot was negated if other people knew they were there, and interrupted them well-meaningly. 

The alley was fairly clean. He wouldn’t open up the skip anytime soon, but clearly the owner kept his unloading area up to code. Sherlock picked up an old apple crate, knelt down, and flourished a key that was the same color as the door with the restaurant’s name in peeling painted letters.

Sherlock opened the door and nearly entered, but aborted the movement to turn it into a swift side step. 

“Oh, um, after you.” Sherlock waved his free arm to gesture John through.

John blinked at him. “…What?” 

Sherlock waved his wrist in emphasis, “You should, you know, go first.”

John’s eyes narrowed, “Why? Did you actually talk to him or did you just expect he would be fine with it?”

“I called ahead to make sure we would have a table,” Sherlock looked affronted by the suggestion that he hadn’t sufficiently prepared. “It’s just…it’s customary for you to go first isn’t it?” He seemed to be genuinely asking John, like Sherlock had no idea and was going off of unreliable hearsay. 

John was confused at the use of the word ‘customary’. What exactly was supposed to be customary about going to dinner? Then he smiled when he realized Sherlock was trying to be polite. “You don’t have to adhere to social norms just because we’re spending time together.”

“Oh,” Sherlock seemed to deflate, and it was hard to tell if it was out of relief or disappointment that what he’d researched had been for nothing. 

“But, erm, thanks for the effort,” John said genuinely.

Sherlock looked reassured by that. “Come on, we’re probably making the owner anxious that we decided to eat elsewhere.” He strode through the door, no longer bothering to see if John was following him.

Probably because he was certain that John would follow him whether or not he checked. ‘Little brat,’ John fondly thought as he walked through the door.

The lighting was dim, but invited a sense of privacy. Warm chocolate and dark red wine colors were complimented by soft cream tablecloths. They were in the back hallway, next to a singular door that announced itself as the bathroom, and the swinging entrance to the kitchen. John could see into a gleaming space that bustled with chefs and servers caught up in the dinner rush. Several smells that John couldn’t identify, but were all labeled under ‘divine’, floated thickly in the air.

“John, this way,” Sherlock kept his voice low to avoid attention. He grabbed John’s wrist to guide him around the corner, where they quickly ducked into a little booth that was sequestered by canvas screens, which kept away all curious eyes. A flickering tealight and two daisies in a small vase made up the centerpiece.

“Won’t they see us if someone goes to the bathroom?” John asked. 

“That one was the employee’s,” Sherlock explained. “And the owner has assured me that they would rather be discreet and polite, than to pester us for questions and be sent home early.”

“How did you manage all of this,” John vaguely waved his hand at the fact that they had taken an alternate entrance, had a private booth to themselves, Sherlock’s foreknowledge of the layout of the restaurant and the behaviors of the staff. 

“What?” Sherlock shrugged, “I told you I had to get ready.”

“That was this afternoon. And that reminds me, no more skipping class.”

“I told you, that was--”

“Good behavior, I heard. And just how long did you talk to the principal into giving you that special day off?”

Sherlock suddenly became very interested in his menu. “The reviews are all particularly positive towards the bolognese sauce. Personally I would choose the alfredo. I think he gets the parmesan from his family’s farm, or at least a close relative.”

“Sherlock, really, I appreciate all the effort you went through for this. But your education is important, you can’t just swan off because you want to--”

“John,” Sherlock firmly said. He didn’t raise his voice, but it cut through John’s upcoming lecture. “I wanted this to be special. I understand your concerns, I do. I promise I made a calculated adjustment and it won’t happen regularly. Just—can we not do this now?”

Guilt spoiled the pleasant relaxation John had been experiencing ever since they’d sat down. “I’m sorry,” John said, “you’re right, I should know to trust you with your own decisions. I just don’t want to see you waste your potential, just so we can go on a--”

The word stuck in his throat like he’d swallowed a tack. No, he hadn’t been about to say—John looked around him. Really _looked_ , and saw the photographs of Venice framed on the walls, heard the low murmur of conversation and sonorous music from unseen speakers. There was the scraping chime of silverware against plates, and the soft pat of wine glasses being set back down onto tables. Nearby, a woman laughed in a way that suggested she wanted her companion to enjoy the sound of it.

“John?” Sherlock tilted his head in confusion. 

“Just so we can have a nice dinner,” John finished. Just like that, the strange moment was broken. Time set itself to a normal pace, and the din of conversation became insignificant noise in the background. The atmosphere became an obvious emotional ploy to justify expensive dinners. That was all this was, a dinner.

Sherlock smiled, and the candlelight did amazing things to soften his features. “Thank you for apologizing. I know that you care about my well-being. Almost disproportionately so to your own.”

John chuckled at that. 

“Ah, I am glad to see that you two are enjoying yourselves!” A voice above John’s head rumbled like it was meant to be shouted over the busy clamor of markets, but had been constrained to indoor volume.

A meaty hand clapped down hard enough on John’s wounded shoulder that he winced. Sherlock tensed, but John spoke before he could do anything, “Yes, yes we are, thank you. Are you Angelo then?”

“That I am!” He patted John’s shoulder amicably, not having seen John’s discomfort. When he pulled away, John tried not to pathetically cover it with his other hand. 

“Sherlock has told me much about you, he was very excited to celebrate your little escapade together. I was honored to have him come here, truly. You have a very promising student you know,” the large man winked in exaggerated conspiracy. 

“I know,” John smiled, his annoyance at being unintentionally manhandled swiftly forgotten. 

“Well, I only wanted to stop by to say hello. I try to do that with all of my tables. At least the ones that wouldn’t mind some brief company. Quite a few of the tables are already ‘friendly’ enough without my being there.” The wink was back again, and John was very glad that the place was dark enough that his blush could be blamed on reflective lighting.

“Oops, shouldn’t be talking like that around the boy genius, I understand. Don’t worry Sherlock, you’ll understand when you’re older.” He looked over at the teenager, who was staring intently at the wood grain. 

Angelo nudged John with his arm, and since John was watching for it, he didn’t flinch. “Kids, eh? Four of my own, all lovely daughters. Can’t seem to talk around them for more than five minutes before I’ve said something that has the missus smacking me on the arm.” John wasn’t quite sure what to say to that, so he tried to smile. The mention of Angelo’s marriage made John’s phone turn into a hefty weight in his pocket.

“I’ll be off now, and just so you know, everything is on the house tonight. It’s the least I can do for our resident hero and his brave teacher,” he grinned so large that John wondered if it hurt to work so many muscles at once.

“Thank you very much but I’m not his--” but Angelo had already walked away, apparently spotting an old friend of his. Or perhaps it was just another stranger that he hoped to get to know.

“Well,” John was minorly charmed, “he seemed very--”

“We should go. Coming here was a mistake.” Sherlock’s hands were curled into small fists on the table.

“What? What are you talking about? He just gave us free food, not that I would have minded paying, but my rationing days have forbidden me to turn down a free meal.”

“He hurt you. He grabbed you on your bad shoulder.”

John was stunned, but not surprised that Sherlock knew which shoulder had been shot. “I—yes. But he didn’t mean to do it. It was an accident Sherlock, it’s not a problem.”

Sherlock’s face was taut with an uncertain frown. John kicked at him under the table, “Hey, Sherlock, I mean it. If he’d actually hurt me, I would let you know. Come on, this place smells amazing and I’m starving. Just don’t worry about it.”

Sherlock’s tension slowly drained out of him like John had twisted a valve. “All right. Just know that if he tries it again and you defend yourself, I can convince everyone it was an accident.”

John snorted as their server approached, “Duly noted.”

John ordered the alfredo, and when he took the first bite, he immediately hoped that they didn’t deliver. Otherwise he would never eat anything else, and eventually he would have to roll himself to work. 

Even Sherlock’s lingering sour mood faded once he dug into his puttanesca. 

Their server stopped by later with a bottle of red wine, “Compliments of the house, sir.” He poured out two glasses, and John would have declined, but Sherlock seemed interested enough by the idea that he left it alone.

“You’ve never had wine before?” John asked in response to Sherlock’s interest. 

“I decided, during my foray into vices, to limit them to just the one,” Sherlock smirked over his glass. “I thought alcoholism on top of everything else might be pushing it a little.”

John tried not to laugh, as a teenager making jokes about their drug addiction was not on. But he was glad he hadn’t sipped before he started to chuckle. It turned into a full laugh when he saw the face Sherlock made when he tried his wine.

“That is an interesting taste,” Sherlock tried to say past his lips involuntarily puckering.

“It’s an acquired thing,” John said as he drank from his own glass, “you get used to it. Plus, once you’re older, and trying to keep your head on straight around genius brats who like to try and take down criminal organizations by themselves, you won’t much care about how it tastes.”

Sherlock laughed and stuck to his water for the rest of the night.

When dessert came, and John bit into his tiramisu, he would have happily let Angelo break his arm if it meant he could eat here for free indefinitely. 

“You sure you don’t want some?” John checked with Sherlock again.

The boy groaned in exaggerated pain, “I don’t understand how you can still eat. I feel like I’m going to burst at the seams.”

“It’s absolutely worth it,” John promised. He scooped up a bit of cake and mascarpone onto his spoon, and held it out towards Sherlock. “Come on, just try a bite. God knows when we’ll get to eat here again.”

Sherlock’s head rolled down from where it had been resting against the back of his seat. Even with their warm surroundings, Sherlock’s eyes were crystalline lenses that trapped John under their intense scrutiny. John was startled enough by the sight that he nearly lowered his utensil.

Sherlock moved with a quicker grace that John would have ever guessed. 

Instead of taking the spoon like John had intended, Sherlock’s fingers wrapped around John’s wrist to keep it steady. His plush lips dragged over the spoon’s surface, taking the contents in a single bite. For a fleeting moment, John saw Sherlock’s pink tongue lap up the underside for any lingering remnants of cream.

The teenager slowly sat back as he savored his bite. When he swallowed, John saw the pale column of his throat bob with the motion. Sherlock’s finger traced around his own lips, before he slipped it into his mouth to lick up any remainders. 

The entire time, Sherlock maintained eye contact. It was as if their gazes were linked together with tiny but unbreakable chains.

“Mm, you were right John, it is worth it.” Sherlock’s voice rolled through John to settle somewhere in his stomach. “A pity there isn’t much more.” 

John sucked in a breath when grey eyes under black lashes turned from wickedly mischievous into ravenously wolfish. 

John’s heart rate sped from its worryingly slow pace. The world began to spin again, and John was left dazed at its whirl. That had been—that wasn’t—how was he supposed to--.

John’s wrist burned where Sherlock had held it steady. He looked at the utensil, which still hovered in the air. With deliberate slowness, John brought the spoon back to set it down beside his dessert. 

An unbidden thought shot through him. The image of using the same spoon to take another bite of his unfinished dessert. To wrap his own lips around the used metal, to trace his tongue where Sherlock’s had been.

John’s hands spasmed on the table, grabbing up fistfuls of cloth. He took twenty seconds to remember how to think beyond the heady fog in his head. He shifted in his seat, because to stay still meant he would go insane. 

But when John shifted his thighs, the evidence of his unsuccessful repression rubbed against the front of his trousers. The weight of it was a stone in his stomach, it pulled John down until there was no escape from the pit that he’d fallen into. 

John tried to speak, but his mouth had become as withered as his decency. He gulped his wine to refresh his throat, but it suddenly tasted sour. “Sherlock,” John tested the word and found it held steady under a stern tone. “If you’re--”

_Teasing me then you’ll be punished._ No, God no, that wouldn’t work at all. That belonged in the opening lines of a porn video. 

_Making a joke then there will be consequences._ Better, but he wasn’t going to use it. It still held the possibility for misconstrued connotations. He already felt like he was alone in the middle of a mine field. A wrong move would mean disaster. 

_Doing this on purpose, then you shouldn’t be._ That would work. That would be fine. Vague enough that it wouldn’t alert anyone that might be eavesdropping, but it firmly stated the point to leave out any ambiguity of his meaning.

John opened his mouth to say it, but Sherlock’s face had lost its hunger. He looked like he was holding back a laugh. 

“John, relax, you look like you’re about to pop something,” Sherlock entreated. He snatched at John’s spoon, scooped up the last bite of tiramisu, and ate it while wearing a large grin.

It was a joke? It was a joke. That was…so far from fine it practically spoke a different language. 

“Sherlock,” John said again, this time in a tone of warning. “You can’t just--”

“Finished just in time too,” Sherlock said as he looked at a clock on the wall. “We don’t want to be too late for the next part.”

“I—next part?” John helplessly asked.

“Yes of course,” Sherlock said as he stood up. He registered John’s words and looked down at him, perplexed, “You didn’t think dinner was the only thing I had planned for tonight did you? It doesn’t take me six hours just to set up a reservation.”

John thought of himself as a rational man, and he wasn’t stupid. He recognized a deflection when he saw one. The motivation behind it was what he couldn’t quite figure out. Had Sherlock seriously meant it as a joke, or was he merely playing it off as one? Had Sherlock genuinely tried to flirt with him, in the bluntest and Sherlock-ish manner possible, and when John hadn’t reciprocated beyond stunned silence, he decided to switch tactics? Or if he had been genuine, was he giving John an out since John didn’t feel the same? 

The sane response to any of those scenarios would be to tell Sherlock, in no uncertain terms, where their relationship as student, authority figure, and friends began and ended. Even if it had been a joke, it was not one that should have been made.

If it had been a serious attempt, then…then John should…

Well. Sherlock had given him an out. They could pretend nothing had happened. There was no point in embarrassing the boy if he immediately recognized the impropriety of his actions. 

“Alright then,” John grinned up at Sherlock, although it was more uncertain than it had been all night. “Where are we going?”

“It works best if I give you directions, I don’t want to spoil the surprise.” Sherlock shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and rocked back on his heels. He nodded his head towards the backdoor, “Come on then, let’s go.”

John was sure to leave a tip for the server as a gesture of thanks for the excellent meal. He shrugged on his coat, and ducked out close behind Sherlock. 

The cooler air of the outdoors felt welcomingly bracing against John’s warmed skin. His crisp inhalations did much to dispel the warm flush from the wine, and turned everything that had transpired inside into a hazy dream. 

Of course Sherlock had been joking, just like he had been when they’d first met. Sherlock was just prone to inappropriate jokes, although John wouldn’t be surprised if Sherlock just didn’t understand the contextual consequences.

Sherlock’s strangely pointed question from yesterday was simply him gauging John’s reactions to those suggestions. Teasing about something like that was something John really needed to warn him against, especially since Mycroft had already assumed they were engaged in something illicit. 

But not now, not when the contentment of a full stomach and barely visible stars peeking out amongst a violet-indigo sky created a rare moment of tranquility. He would talk to Sherlock about it later.

“Okay then,” John said as he started the ignition, “where to?”

Sherlock led him further and further away from the town, until they were travelling up a winding pathway. They were further into the countryside than John had ever gone, and he privately wondered just what Sherlock had planned.

“Okay, stop here,” Sherlock said. The area was no different from the endless stretch of pasture that they had already passed. “Now open up your boot,” he instructed.

John said nothing for a few seconds, “If we are here to bury a body I am going to be _very_ cross with you.”

Sherlock snorted, “Please, as if I would have left such an obvious trail if I was disposing of a murder.”

“I really hope that at least sounded reassuring in your head.”

Sherlock sighed in exasperation, “Fine, I’ll get it out at least, but you should come with me so you can conclusively prove to yourself that I’m not hiding a corpse in your car.”

John came around with him, and found a thick blanket along with a few pillows. “I don’t remember putting this in here,” John pointedly said as he looked right at Sherlock.

The teenager was unabashedly grinning as he pulled out the pillows, “That’s because you didn’t. This is an old car with a very simplistic locking mechanism. I spent more time looking up the model of the lock than I did in picking it.” 

John rolled his eyes, but grabbed the rolled blanket without complaint. He followed after Sherlock, who had also packed a small torch. 

They walked in a steady incline up a large hill, far enough that John’s car looked like a child’s toy. The blanket became heavier the further he carried it in his arms.

“How much longer?” John asked the boy who was walking at a much faster pace, “I could have parked much closer than this.”

“Don’t whine,” Sherlock said, “I wanted us away from the car as much as possible. Ah, here we are.”

Before John could ask why on earth he would want to be so far from the only thing capable of getting them back into town, he followed Sherlocks’ gaze and looked into the sky. 

A wave of vertigo struck John as he stared into the swirling amass of stars. 

John was no stranger to star lit skies, as that had been one of his favorite things during his time in Afghanistan. He’d seen it become so full of stars that it looked fit to burst, ready to spill crystalline chips onto the ground if only someone could find a thin place on the fabric of the sky to rip it all open. 

This, with English soil under his heels and less than an hour’s drive from home, was very different. John knew it didn’t make much sense, but he thought that the stars looked different here. Like borders and oceans really could transport you to a whole new world where everything you saw could only faintly remind you of the familiar. 

Movement out of the corner of John’s eye tore him away from the indigo sky. Sherlock was laying out the blanket and positioning the pillows. He flopped down onto his back and immediately recoiled. With a few choice words that John should have really discouraged him from using, Sherlock flipped the blanket back to chuck a tiny rock way across the other side of the hill. 

John stifled a laugh. It completely died in his throat when Sherlock readjusted everything and held up a beckoning hand from his seated position. 

“The view is better from here,” Sherlock reasoned. 

John hesitated. He could sit on the damp grass alone, or he could join Sherlock on the blanket. It wasn’t that strange was it, to share a seating space and enjoy the natural sights?

He took Sherlock’s hand, which aided him into sitting on the ground.

“You handled that very well for your age,” Sherlock teased.

“And that’s your one and only old man joke,” John half-heartedly warned. He looked back up into the sky, and felt his heart swoop. 

Here, at the top of the curve of the hill, the horizon became nonexistent. The distance between sky and land appeared miniscule. Like sweets to a child, the stars beckoned just above John’s head. Without thinking, he reached out a hand to try and touch them. Even though he grasped at nothing, he felt like he could pocket a few of them and keep them on his nightstand to ward off the loneliness.

John remembered that he wasn’t actually alone. He looked over at Sherlock, who wasn’t looking at the stars. 

“How did you find this place?” John asked.

“I researched the best conditions for stargazing and managed to find something that closely resembles those specifications. To be honest I would rather we were out in the countryside another ten kilometers, and at a slightly higher elevation, but this will suffice.”

“It’s perfect,” John said. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock grinned brightly enough to match the sky above them. He turned his attention toward the stars. “I’m glad,” Sherlock softly said.

John was taken aback by how much starlight accented Sherlock’s features. He’d always thought of Sherlock as something otherworldly. Out here, with nothing but the night around them, Sherlock looked like he was cut from the cloth of space and made flesh. 

John felt like he had been staring for too long. He looked forward, where he could pretend that if he tilted forward a little too far, he could fall straight off the edge of the Earth and plummet into a world of velvet and diamonds. 

With John’s arms on either side of him keeping him propped in his seated position, and his eyes focused on the sky, he felt a warm hand cover his own before he saw any movement. 

John’s heart ceased to beat. The wine and his dinner became a weight in his stomach. He felt that if he dared to breathe, then his world would shatter in a cascade of carefully built denials. 

He counted to three, and when the hand refused to move out of embarrassed realization, he turned his head. 

Sherlock was staring at him.

John’s skin felt simultaneously cold and stiflingly hot. His hand was beginning to feel numb under Sherlock’s minor weight.

In the span of two stuttered heart beats, Sherlock glanced down at John’s lips and then back up at his eyes. 

In that same amount of time, Sherlock had minutely leaned forward. John gasped, and Sherlock’s eyes darted down to see his lips part open further. 

Sherlock surged forward, and reality gripped John by his nape in icy claws. 

“No,” John tried to yell, but it turned into a choked squawk as he leaned backward in the same second. Sherlock unintentionally fell forward, but the teen caught himself on his hands.

Now John was lying on his back, half off of their shared blanket, as a confused teenager looked down with his hands on either side of John’s torso. 

“No?” Sherlock repeated as he tilted his head. 

With a sort of desperate mania, John nearly tried to turn this into another one of Sherlock’s jokes. But then he remembered the ‘joke’ Sherlock had played with the spoon back at the restaurant. The way he had tried to hold open the door for John because it was the ‘traditional’ thing to do. The effort and care Sherlock had gone through to make this night special. How Sherlock had intently stared into his being when he’d asked him if all John was worried about was his job if people suspected them of being ‘involved’. 

Something cracked in John’s chest. It felt like the sort of unpleasant honesty that came with informing a family their loved one had died in surgery. 

“Sherlock,” John said with a tone of gentle regret, “no.”

Sherlock frowned viciously. John felt dread creep into the fissures in his heart, and knew this night would turn from a cherished memory into a painful one.

“I don’t understand,” Sherlock crawled back to let John sit up. John contemplated just lying there on the damp grass, but Sherlock deserved to be met with dignity. 

“I—what do you mean?” John asked, because he wasn’t entirely sure what part he should clarify first.

“Why aren’t you reciprocating?”

John closed his eyes for a moment to gather his bravery. It was buried somewhere underneath his crumbled ethics. 

“Sherlock, do you really need me to explain that to you?”

“Since I just asked you, yes, I think I do,” the teenager bit out. John’s unseen wounds were peeled open a little further at the hurt in Sherlock’s voice.

“There are so many---Sherlock, you’re a lot younger than me.”

“That isn’t an issue in this case. I’m of consensual age.” The hurt was being rapidly replaced with practiced certainty. Like Sherlock had come prepared for this argument.

That worried John a great deal more than Sherlock’s stung pride. 

“That doesn’t matter, I’m practically old enough to be your father, and you’re a student!” 

“I am a student, yes, but I’m not _your_ student. You’re only a member of the faculty. And you work in a section that rarely deals with large groups of pupils.”

“Yeah, only the ones that come in for check-ups. You know, nothing innately vulnerable about getting consulted by a doctor or anything,” John defaulted to a sarcastic tone, because he had no other recourse. There were no words for how much he did not want to have this conversation.

The stars had been so beautiful, but now they were like a thousand accusatory eyes. They waited in cold judgement for John to fail at explaining morality and common decency to a teenager. 

“Fine then,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “but that only gets called into question if you’re caught.”

“We are not,” John bit the words out, “doing anything in secret, because nothing is happening between us that would require secrecy.”

“You mean you want to tell your wife? That’s surprising, I didn’t think you would bring that up until well after your divorce.”

“My—my _what_?”

“Oh, come on, John! I’ve been in your house. If it wasn’t for a sense of obligation and pity, she would probably be sleeping in the upstairs bedroom.”

There was a ringing sound in John’s head. It was fairly similar to the aftershocks of a bomb that detonated a little too close for comfort. 

“Sherlock, that’s enough.”

The words must have been too soft for the inherent warning to register. Sherlock continued, “You barely acknowledge that she’s in the same room with you, there were indications in your kitchen that you’ve started to separate ‘his and hers’ plates like you’re flat mates instead of spouses, and I don’t even need to see your bed to know that you haven’t had sex in at least six months and that’s a generous estimate considering--”

“For fuck’s sake Sherlock! The state of my marriage, while none of your goddamn business, doesn’t matter! Because I’m not attracted to you! I’m not gay!”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide. He sat back on his haunches, like he wasn’t able to find equilibrium under that declaration. John thought for a precious second that he had punctured a hole in that inflated arrogance. 

Then Sherlock opened his mouth again, “My God, was it the army, your family, or your sham of a marriage that makes you bury your head so determinedly in the sand?”

John couldn’t have been more blindsided if Sherlock had slapped him with full force. “What are you talking about,” he asked. Something that sounded like his common sense told him he was making a terrible decision in allowing Sherlock to explain himself.

“John, I could run out of breath by the time I’ve stopped listing your numerous flirtatious glances, your tendency to initiate physical contact, the fact that you actively seek out my companionship over that of your wife’s, that your repeated objections to my brother’s supposition was at a suggestion of infidelity and exploitative behavior but was never once an objection to mutual attraction, and that you personally suggested we go on a _date_ , but I think I’ll stop myself from dying of asphyxiation by saying that throughout the course of the night you’ve looked at my mouth at least sixteen times, not including the three that just occurred during this tirade.”

John felt like he really was spinning through the void that loomed so close above them. There was no other to way to describe the vertigo that turned his fingertips to ice. 

Sherlock’s face softened, “John,” his hands hesitantly reached out to John’s, but pulled back at the last second when John flinched. “Something doesn’t always have to be morally pure for it to be something you want,” he continued. 

“Morally pure,” John parroted back in disbelief. It was like they were talking about John having a slightly off-color kink, instead of openly discussing having an affair with a student. He shook his head and refused to see whatever expression Sherlock had. “And do you? Want…this?” He motioned a hand between the both of them.

John saw the slight dip of Sherlock’s chin as he nodded. “You probably won’t believe me, but you’re remarkable. You’re engaging, funny, charming, and entirely separate from bland people pretending that they’re inherently unique by virtue of the simple truth that you actually _are_ unique. You’re brave, selfless, you try to be good even when you know you it won’t lead to a favorable outcome, and you’re addicted to danger. You’re the best man I’ve ever met. Why wouldn’t I want to be closer to you if I was given the chance?”

John’s face felt hot. His breath stuttered around the clenching sensation in his throat. It hurt, beyond comprehension, that those were the kindest words he had ever heard, and there was nothing he could do to return them. There was a part of John, a part that he could not allow to grow, that agreed with all of Sherlock’s earlier deductions. If his feelings were really so obvious to the boy, then what was the point in trying to fight something that Sherlock had decided was a forgone conclusion?

But John had seen this young man turn his talents from pissing off rich brats to uncovering crime syndicates. He watched Sherlock become proud of his gifts, instead of turning them into a weapon that he used to keep strangers at bay. John wasn’t going to let Sherlock throw all of that away, or waste it on a fanciful crush. That was all this was, John told himself as he balled up his hands, it was just a teenager confusing mentorship with a romance.

It was John’s fault, so he would fix this. He breathed in through his nose, and turned the heat of his shame into a forge that would give him the strength to do what was necessary. 

“Sherlock, if I’m the best man that you’ve ever met, then I’m afraid that’s a result of your small reference pool. It doesn’t mean you have feelings for me.”

He felt Sherlock tense across from him. John continued to stare at his hands. John would rather believe it was cowardice, than admit to the possibility that his resolve would waver if he met Sherlock eye to eye. 

“I know what affection is, I’m not an idiot,” Sherlock said in a low tone. He was clearly angry, but he was also giving John a chance to apologize. 

John didn’t take it, “No, you’re just young.”

“Oh, and age is indicative of wisdom? If that were true, you would be owning up to your own feelings, instead of trying to shut me out in the most clichéd manner possible.”

“You don’t have feelings for me Sherlock,” John repeated. It was like pulling barbs out of his own throat to say the words, but he needed to burn this bridge while he could. Before Sherlock started to take this crush seriously, or worse, before John did.

“ _You_ don’t know my thoughts, although I’m afraid the opposite isn’t true,” Sherlock retorted. “You assume I’ve never felt love before because of my age, or that I wouldn’t know what it was, or that I’m confusing friendship for something deeper. Well I can assuredly say that you are wrong on every point. I have been in love before, or have you forgotten Victor?” 

“And you’re just as wrong now as you were then,” John ripped open the wound like he was removing infected tissue, with apathy and precision. 

Sherlock stood up. John finally looked up at him. If the teenager was going to strike him, John might as well make himself an easy target. 

Sherlock regarded him with a twisted expression. Like he wasn’t sure if he was meant to be furious, disgusted, or anguished.

When he just stood there, nearly vibrating with suppressed energy, John tried to break the silence. “I’m sorry Sherlock,” but the boy waved his hand to cut John’s words out of the air. 

“Don’t,” Sherlock said, “just---stop talking.” He turned around, as if he couldn’t bear to face him anymore. He rubbed his long fingers through his hair, tangling the black locks around and around each other, mirroring the hard knots of emotion resting inside the soft tissue of their minds.

John took a deep breath, and pushed down the hot lump in his throat. When he blinked, and his vision became slightly clearer, he saw Sherlock’s walls come down. One moment, Sherlock was tense enough to snap, the next, he smoothed out like a potter reshaping clay. When Sherlock’s back was a little straighter, John began to doubt if he’d made the right decision. 

John’s fingers curled in the grass. No, he told himself, he hadn’t made a mistake. This was the responsible thing to do, the decent thing to do. 

Then Sherlock turned around, and John was staring at a stranger. “Just take me home Doctor Watson,” Sherlock said with no trace of emotion. It was like he was a blank slate. 

The doubt seeped into John’s mind, as sticky and putrid as tar. He couldn’t scrub it away from his thoughts. 

There wasn’t anything he could do. He had said his piece. He had decided this was the best thing for the both of them. For a very large number of reasons, he could not allow Sherlock to entertain the idea that they could have a romantic relationship. That was the right thing to do. 

John ignored the burning sensation in his gut that felt suspiciously similar to regret. Since there were no words that could make this better, no comforting phrases that would soothe the sting, John silently picked up the blanket. Together they made the long walk back to the car. 

It was an even longer drive back to the house. The entire time, John’s knuckles were white from his grip on the wheel. He tried to keep his eyes on the road. But when they stopped at a light, he looked over to see that Sherlock was staring resolutely out the window. It was too dark for John to make out any clear reflection. 

By the time they were home, there was enough unspoken words between them that John felt like he was being crushed under their weight. He turned off the car, and the clacking of the engine became a countdown to when they would have to part. 

John breathed through his nose, counted to three, and let it out. His vocal chords still felt tangled around each other. They prevented him from saying ‘I had a nice night,’ or ‘I’m sorry it ended like this’. Both felt unacceptable, but saying nothing seemed far worse. 

“Keep the blanket,” Sherlock said as he unbuckled, “it was old anyway.” His hand reached for the door handle, and John went blank with panic. While it wasn’t exactly a tearful goodbye or a heartfelt ‘Go fuck yourself’, Sherlock’s flat tone and stiff demeanor all spoke of something final. 

Something scratched in a mad fervor in John’s chest, desperate for him to say something, anything that would stop the teenager from severing their ties. It was like a nightmare made real. He was moving too slow, he couldn’t think of the right words to say. He was watching the only thing he’d felt happy about in a long time walk out of his life. 

“It’s not your fault,” John blurted out. 

Sherlock stopped opening the door handle. He didn’t turn around, but he waited for John to elaborate. 

“I shouldn’t have let things get so out of hand. I probably should have seen this coming but I was too caught up in—I just wanted--” John took in an unsteady breath, which did nothing to make his heart stop feeling pulped.

“I got caught up in…all of it. You. You were amazing and brilliant and you saw me as someone worthy of your time. I got addicted to that. I shouldn’t have. I kept wanting to--” _be with you_ “to find out what kind of person you are, what sort of man you will become. So, for that, I’m sorry for the hurt I’ve caused you.”

Sherlock didn’t respond at first. He sat there, unmoving. John silently marveled at the restraint Sherlock apparently possessed, since he was not hurling every vitriolic word he could think of. 

“I already am a man,” Sherlock said. He slowly turned around, and John was unable to identify the teenager’s expression. It was too hopeful and soft to have a name. 

“John,” the doctor steadfastly ignored the relief that surged through him at hearing his name again, “I am already old enough to make decisions for myself. I live on my own, I’ve made hefty mistakes that most don’t come back from, I can see and understand this world and all of its complex mysteries with minimal effort. Why do you think I can’t be trusted to know my own feelings?”

John didn’t have an answer for him. He wanted to, he desperately searched himself for a mature and logical response to that question. But he couldn’t find anything suitable. Everything he thought of utterly failed to express how much he wished—

“I wish things were different,” John admitted. “I know that you think you understand what you’re feeling Sherlock. But you’re going to have to trust me on this, the way I’ve trusted you before. What you’re experiencing isn’t love, it’s just a misguided crush. That’s all.”

“What I feel,” Sherlock said with undaunted assurance, “is far more substantial than what you have with your own wife.”

It was John’s turn to make his way out of the car. He heard the passenger door open behind him, but didn’t stop to turn around. He couldn’t do this anymore. He was trying to be an upstanding role model, and it was being thrown back in his face. Not that John blamed him. John couldn’t stand himself either.

He had a brief moment where he saw his interactions with Sherlock juxtaposed with Mary and was startled at his own hypocrisy. No wonder the teenager was so confused and attached, John hadn’t given him much choice in the matter.

John swallowed his bile, and before he could reach for his house key, Sherlock grabbed him by the arm. 

“You said before,” Sherlock rushed his words like they were the last ones he would ever say, “you said that you wished things were different. Why? Different for what reason?”

John realized his mistake too late. He replayed the words in his head, and found that his voice had been weighted with longing. 

The ground underneath John was suddenly unsteady. It was possibly getting ready to swallow him up to face perdition at any moment. Had John contributed more to this disaster than just hitching his decrepit wagon onto the exciting experiences of a teenager? 

It didn’t matter, John told himself as he walled away the realizations that were trying to break through. This development between them was being stopped, one way or another. There was no point in trying to figure something out when its point was already moot. 

“Never mind,” John said as he tried to move away. Sherlock continued to hold onto him. John said, “It’s pointless because you don’t…” for some reason, he was having a hard time saying the words aloud. 

“But if things were different,” Sherlock pushed, “what would you have said instead?” 

John reached his hand up to Sherlock’s. Gently, he pulled the teen’s hand away to free himself. John counted to three, and let go. 

“Goodnight Sherlock,” John said as he stepped into his house without looking back. He had hoped, selfishly, that maybe they could go back to the way things were before tonight. But now John wouldn’t be surprised if Sherlock moved to a different house by the end of the week.

He swallowed against the hurt that thought brought. 

What John wanted to do was have time to himself, go over everything that had happened, and wallow in his self-pity until he could muster up an idea of how to fix this train wreck of a situation.

Which, of course, was why he had forgotten about his own wife until she greeted him at the door. 

“John! Jesus, there you are! Where were you? I’ve been trying to get in touch for two hours, did you and Sherlock only just get done with dinner?”

Panic made John hasty, “Yes, I mean, no, sorry. We went to see a movie afterward, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

John shrugged off his coat, desperate to end the conversation and go to bed. Maybe the morning would help clear away all of this confusion.

“Oh,” Mary said. John couldn’t tell if she was disappointed. Maybe she was just disinterested. He wasn’t sure if he was capable of caring at this point, and he hated himself a little more for that thought. 

“What did you go see?” Mary asked as she stood awkwardly in the living room. A lifetime ago, John wouldn’t have fathomed wanting to experience something new without her there to share it. Now she would never know what the stars looked like on a raised hill in the middle of nowhere. 

It was something only he and Sherlock knew, like they’d gone on an elaborate heist for the world’s most precious diamonds. Even with the way things had ended, John wasn’t ashamed of his avarice over that knowledge.

He realized Mary had asked him a question. Frantically, his mind tried to recall recent films and came up blank. “Oh, just some, stupid comedy. Wasn’t worth the tickets.” 

“Oh,” Mary said again. She was picking at her nails, an anxious habit she had picked up in medical school. 

John couldn’t question her about it now, not when his head felt like it was stuffed inside of a hornet’s nest, simultaneously muffled and ungodly noisy. 

“I’m uh,” John motioned towards the bedroom, “pretty tired. I’ll see you in the morning, probably.”

“John,” Mary stopped him before he could take a step.

“Yeah?” John tried to keep the aggravation out of his voice, but he wasn’t sure if he succeeded.

“Are you alright?”

This was beyond dangerous. This was a situation that John was ill-prepared for, like someone had asked him to disarm a bomb when all he knew was how to stitch up a person. 

“Yeah, of course I am, why?” He nearly bit his own tongue out of his frustration at himself. Why did he continue the discussion? He should have just said he was fine, and then get on with his apparently impossible task of going to bed.

“It’s just, you’ve been very distant lately. I mean, happier, for sure. You’re the happiest I’ve seen you in a long time. You don’t even need the cane anymore, and I know that there’s more to it than your physical therapy. But you’re also…shut off.” 

John knew this was the worst possible time to be having this argument, but he was tired. He was tired, worn down, hurt and ashamed. He didn’t have it in him to not be defensive, not when he’d just sacrificed the best friendship he had ever had all because he had willfully ignored when it was going too far.

“You haven’t exactly been an open book either Mary.” Perhaps it was worse that John said it in monotone. There was no inflection of anger or hurt in it. Just the cold truth that neither of them had been able to hold a deeper conversation than the grocery list in months. 

Her face pinched, “Alright, I suppose that’s fair. Fine, we both walk on eggshells around each other lately. But anytime I try and talk to you, it’s like you’re somewhere else. What’s going on?”

It was this inopportune moment that John’s mind decided to replay Sherlock’s words. _If it wasn’t for a sense of obligation and pity…_

“Why are you asking me?” The words left his mouth before he had the chance to know that was what he wanted to say.

Mary blinked at him, “What?”

“Why are you even bothering with asking if we barely talk to one another?”

Mary looked stricken. Apparently, it was John’s job to break hearts and ruin relationships tonight.

“I didn’t mean,” John ran a hand through his hair, “I’m sorry.” He nearly slumped against the wall, but he kept himself upright with the shreds of his dignity. 

“Right then,” Mary said with all of the steely resolve of a weapon, “since we’re apparently just living in the same house, ignoring one another, I think I’ll sleep upstairs tonight.”

_…she would be sleeping in the upstairs bedroom._

Sherlock’s words rang like a tolling bell in John’s mind. It wasn’t like a warning, more like an announcement. Here lies the last remains of John’s hopes that Sherlock was wrong. The cynical thought tasted like blood, but it was only John biting the inside of his cheek. 

John stopped avoiding her gaze, and saw her raw pain and confusion. He was pulled back to when he had last seen that look on her face, when they’d argued about his leg and moving out of London. They’d both said things that they didn’t mean, had only flung words meant to hurt because they were both scared and upset.

He remembered, for a brief second, the woman he had married. He was lucidly aware of how close he was to losing it all.

John nearly stopped her. The words were on his tongue. By the look on her face, she wanted to be reminded of why they were both standing on ugly carpeting only two steps apart from one another. Why the house had framed   
memories of them being in marital bliss, when they could barely smile at each other. Both of them wanted to be reminded why they had chosen the other in the first place. 

Then the moment had passed, and neither of them had spoken first.

Instead, they both clung to pride, their supposed last and most cherished possession, and stalked off to their separate beds without another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for being patient with every update! Lots of things going on, lots of fights to be fought. Please remember that I love writing, and this fandom, and my passion for all things Sherlock is undaunted. No matter what the show tries to do to itself.


	7. Chapter 7

When John woke up the next morning, everything felt colorless. It lacked the softness of a faded photograph. Everything felt like it had been scrubbed raw and bleached. Stinging and harsh. 

John called in sick. He honestly considered himself brave in many ways, but facing an empty office, watching the clock tick by, and dreading either Sherlock’s appearance or his absence was too much for him to shoulder. 

Molly was very understanding and wished him well. When John hung up the phone he was blinded with paranoia. Had she heard anything strange in his voice? Had she noticed that he was in perfect health yesterday and that an onset of the flu was quite sudden? Had she overheard that Sherlock and him were going out last night, and that maybe John wanted to spend a day in bed for other reasons?

John forcefully uncurled his hands. He refused to give in to those thoughts, otherwise it would never stop. 

He felt odd as he moved about the house. Like he was a puppeteer for his own body. When he made coffee, he held the warm mug in his hands until it went cold without taking a single sip. He tried to drink it, but the acidity churned in his stomach. He dumped it down the drain and felt compelled to clean the sink. Then the rest of the kitchen, the living room, the bathroom, until he reached his bedroom. It seemed a pitiful thought, to refer to it as ‘his’ room now. 

He wondered what Mary had slept on last night since they didn’t have a mattress upstairs. Probably the airbed. If they were really going to go through with this, they would have to set aside some money. It wasn’t right for Mary to just sleep on inflated plastic. 

“Fucking Christ,” John muttered to himself. He was going over the logistics of sleeping in separate bedrooms. They hadn’t even talked about it, and he was already making preparations. 

And what the hell was he doing, assuming that Mary should sleep upstairs, uncomfortable until they could get the proper arrangements? He should take it. It wasn’t like he had his limp to worry about anymore, and getting back cramps might feel enough like self-flagellation that he could start to feel better about himself. 

A chill passed over him. Right, his leg. The one that had stopped pretending to have sharp pains when he was with Sherlock.

Realizing that he may very well return to using his cane, unable to go to the shops without getting pitying looks, made him run a trembling hand over his face. It was selfish enough to make him sick, but that didn’t stop the gut wrenching fear of going back to what he had been before. A half-living man that took walks at night so as to avoid other people. 

As he realized he could lose the use of his leg, like a fairytale blessing revoked, the loss of everything else came crashing over him too. No more fun and interesting conversations during lunch. No more late night texts to his phone asking for some bizarre ingredient to an even stranger experiment. He wouldn’t know when Sherlock had gotten into another argument with one of his teachers, or when he had scathingly deduced every dirty secret of a snide student. The sense of purpose and belonging that John had settled into over such a short time was now gone. 

The ache of that knowledge startled him. When had he started relying on Sherlock to provide him so much happiness? 

If he was being honest with himself, John supposed it was the first time the teenager had sat on his exam table, and deduced everything wrong with his mediocre life. 

John steadied himself. He had thought that the morning and time alone would make things better. Instead, he was beginning to understand just how much he had lost. All because he hadn’t wanted to pay attention to the signs in front of him.

Mycroft’s accusations might as well have been true, from how thoroughly John had fucked up their relationship.

Oh, fuck, he had forgotten about Mycroft. 

Maybe all of his worries about seeing Sherlock in the halls or facing his wife were moot. Quite possibly he was going to be carted away to some unknown location and left in a hole to die, while some shady prick with an umbrella stamped some papers to make it all very legal and official. Death by governmental nepotism. 

John covered his face with his hands and tried to remember to take deep breaths. As he dragged his hands down, an alarmingly calm finality swept over him. 

Perhaps that was the answer after all. It would be what he had promised, to inform Mycroft of any changes. Maybe then the boy could get some help, hell, maybe _John_ could get some help. Even if that came in the form of a burlap sack over his head and an unmarked grave. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about what to do next if his future was already decided.

He went to get his mobile. According to the clock, it wasn’t even noon yet. His swirling panics had felt like hours upon hours. 

He breathed deeply enough to feel his lungs hurt from the pressure. With his limited familiarity with technology and a buzzing brain, it took him a few minutes to compile a succinct but satisfactory message.

‘Need assistance.’

John didn’t stop staring at the screen as he waited two whole minutes before he received a reply. 

[In a meeting. Can we discuss this another time?]

Irritation prickled up John’s neck. He wished for physical buttons that he could press with force instead of a flat screen he had to tap, ‘Sure, that’s why I’m texting you for a lark when I made it perfectly clear how much I don’t like you.’

For how slowly John typed, he managed to send each message within a minute of each other. ‘Clearly, I would want to make every excuse to text you.’

‘Just wanted to know if Sherlock favors cake over pie.’ 

‘Now fucking excuse yourself from the meeting.’

‘Or I’

‘Will do this’

‘One word’

‘At a’ 

His phone rang before he could finish. John felt his nerves fray in entirely new ways. Fear nearly made him press the ignore button. But he had sought Mycroft out, and he was out of options. 

John sighed and accepted the call. “I literally don’t care who you were talking to, this is important.”

“I gathered that,” Mycroft dryly said, “but thankfully no wars _should_ be started while I’m gone. Now then, what is so--”

“Sherlock tried to kiss me.”

Out loud, the words were absurd and horrifying. It wasn’t as if he had been hiding from the truth, but saying it solidified it. Made it a tangible slime that clung to his skin. It also prickled at the back of his neck, like he could feel Sherlock’s fingers trailing through his hair.

Mycroft made a noise that would sound like a noncommittal sigh to anyone else. To John, he knew it was a way to buy time to process.

“I take it you stopped him then?”

John gaped, then remembered Mycroft couldn’t see him. “Of course I did!”

“Well, that’s surprising. So if you’re not calling to try and get a petty rise from me by describing my brother’s…exploits, what exactly was the purpose of this call?”

John gripped the plastic of the phone so hard that he heard it creak. “I seem to recall some very pointed threats towards my reputation and livelihood when all you had was a grainy picture.”

“That was when I thought you were taking advantage of an adolescent with self-purpose and esteem issues. Now I know better. And I know that you weren’t entirely dismissive of the idea, as much as you wanted to be.”

“Is this a family trait, this pretending to know my own thoughts more than myself?”

“I wouldn’t call it pretending.”

“Alright, fuck this,” John snapped, “are you going to help me with this or not?”

“That’s the part I’m trying to understand Doctor Watson,” Mycroft said with infinite patience, “what exactly are you asking of me?”

John floundered, “I don’t know, talk to him? Help him with moving? See if I could request my death to look like a heroic and painless one?”

“Oh, I see. You assumed that I wouldn’t approve of it.”

John took the phone away from his ear for several seconds. When he was certain he wouldn’t chuck it against the wall, he brought it back up. “You approve of your brother trying to court a married man who’s over half his age, am I hearing that correctly?”

“The circumstances are not ideal,” Mycroft’s dry tone carried through the connection with pointed emphasis, “but I would be a fool to not notice how he’s behaved differently around you. Staying in his classes, a stable and routine schedule intermingled with yours, and an actual interest in another human being’s welfare. You should be awarded some international prize.”

John’s mind was caught on the previously unknown fact that Sherlock had been staying in his classes. He had assumed as much, given the stories that Sherlock had told him, and the way the teachers had all begun murmuring about devilish protégés into their coffee mugs more frequently. But the fact that Mycroft remarked on that particular change meant there had been a time when Sherlock hadn’t been able to or didn’t want to. Done with such alarming frequency that it became noteworthy when Sherlock actually attended school. 

Had Sherlock actively sought to better himself, just to make John proud? Had he been trying to prove that he wasn’t an irresponsible kid with a huge brain? Or had he simply done it because John had asked him to?

John remembered Sherlock begging him to not bring up the fact that he had deliberately skipped a day of school to plan their evening. Was it because John had failed to praise him for attending his classes, or even acknowledge the effort? Had he felt like his flaws were being thrown in his face while his accomplishments went unnoticed?

To deliberately try and better himself, at the prompting of someone that he admired, went a little bit beyond just a normal crush. That was compromise. That was a mature response to someone you cared about showing concern over poor habits. 

But that wasn’t what he’d told Sherlock. He’d told him that he was far too young to truly know his feelings. He had told a young man, who was putting in real effort into making someone proud, that there was no way John could ever take his emotions seriously. He had also said that he didn’t reciprocate those feelings.

He seized on that point, “I don’t feel that way about him Mycroft. Whatever you and Sherlock assume of me, I’m not looking to have a…to start a…I don’t want a relationship with him.”

“Oh really? You seem to be doing everything to prove the contrary.”

“Don’t you start too,” John warned, “and I thought that you weren’t spying on us anymore?”

“I certainly don’t keep as close of an eye on you or Sherlock as much as I would prefer, but let’s just say that there are members of your staff who don’t have as many moral scruples as you do. And I’m not referring to anyone watching you and giving me compromising details, so you can stop having a heart attack now.”

“Then what do you mean,” John snapped, pretending he hadn’t been about to hyperventilate.

“I’m referring to when you went to great lengths to defend him, after I had cast my doubts on the nature of your relationship. From the degree you became so righteous, I had no trouble imagining that, if we were in a different time, you would have happily challenged me to a duel for the sake of his virtue.”

“I was just,” John struggled to find the right words, “he didn’t need an accusation like that marring his future. I thought you were blackmailing me, and by extension, him. Of course I was defensive!”

“You’re also quite keen to protect him under any circumstances. You may find this hard to believe, but most people are willing to throw themselves in front of a bullet for someone, before ever allowing their personal scandals into the daylight. Yet you were prepared to do both. As long as it meant Sherlock could lead a normal life. Well, normal by his standards.”

John said nothing, because he didn’t have anything to say.

“As much as I know you don’t want to hear this Doctor Watson, you care more for my brother than your engrained social propriety will allow you to accept. Since he clearly feels the same for you, and has made it perfectly clear, with great ferocity, that he is perfectly capable of making his own decisions, then I see no reason to oppose your relationship. Now, I believe my time as a couples’ therapist is at an end. I really must get back to work.”

“You seriously aren’t going to do anything? I’m,” John swallowed down his pride. What good had it ever done him anyway? “I’m asking for your help, Mycroft.”

“This _is_ me helping you, Doctor. Have a pleasant day.”

The line cut out. John stared at his phone as the screen shined back at him. For a long number of seconds, John considered smashing the thing to pieces. He settled for kicking at the sofa. 

“Fuck,” John choked on the curse. 

Well, Mycroft was a shot in the dark anyway. At least John wasn’t going to be shuffled into a black site faster than you could say ‘bureaucracy’. 

But it was also his only chance at bringing a third party into this, someone objective who could help via intervention. He now had to deal with this on his own.

He collapsed onto the sofa. One deep breath in, and one out; John then tried to parse through the mess. 

If this was someone he had met in a pub, and harmless flirting had crossed a line, he would apologize for the miscommunication and never speak to them again. 

But he didn’t want that. He genuinely didn’t. He liked Sherlock, enjoyed speaking with him. He liked the easy way they could talk about everything, or even sit in comfortable silence with each other’s company. The thought of giving that up pulled at something vital behind his sternum.

Hell, he doubted he even _could_ give up talking to him completely. They had become a famous duo to the town overnight. The teenaged genius and his helpful mentor. If they cut ties completely, people would notice.   
So that meant he would have to talk it out. They would have to come to an understanding and try to move on. 

After Sherlock had confessed himself, and John had turned him down. More than that, he had dismissed Sherlock’s feelings as ‘confused’. In a moment when Sherlock wanted most to be treated like an equal, John had handled him like a child. 

Christ, he had royally fucked this up. 

How did he even go about apologizing for something like this? ‘So sorry for giving you the wrong impression from a married man almost twice your age, and for belittling your feelings. Which you made absolutely certain would be revealed in a mature manner, and have been making adjustments in your own life to prove this isn’t just a whim. How about we pretend everything’s normal?’ 

He would have to rephrase some things, but that was his only option. Ultimately though, it would be Sherlock’s decision. He could very well decide that he never wanted to see John again. Which he would respect to the best of his abilities. It would gut him, but he would do it. 

John looked at the clock. Somehow, sitting on the couch and staring at nothing had caused hours to pass by. Sherlock wouldn’t be getting home until later though. John wondered who he would ask for a ride home. Probably Molly. 

Then, unbidden, came the imagery of what would inevitably happen when John made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that they could never be together. Sherlock would, after an indeterminable amount of time, but inevitably all the same, find someone else.

It wasn’t like it would be hard either. He was a smart kid, and charming when he wanted to be. His inadvertent fame meant he would likely be getting offers from many other teenagers. It didn’t hurt that Sherlock was far from bad-looking. 

He had cheekbones that models would be envious over. His black curls lent him a boyish playfulness that contrasted with his sharp eyes. He was admittedly skinny and pale, but once he stopped growing faster than he could eat, it would probably develop into the leanness of a runner. Of course, there was also his lips. Soft and full, constantly pulled to the side in a smug smirk or a mischievous grin. 

A vivid sense memory crashed over John. How his hand had been slightly tugged forward when Sherlock had sucked and lapped at the spoon of tiramisu. On that starlit hill, John had felt the warmth of Sherlock’s breath over his own lips before he had pulled away. He had been aroused, both times, and he had been terrified by the force of it.

Sherlock and Mycroft’s deductions came crashing over him. They had both insisted that his attraction to Sherlock had been so obvious that he didn’t need to bother with pretending. Which John hadn’t been. He hadn’t been hiding some illicit attraction, he _hadn’t_. 

With dawning horror John began to realize that perhaps it was because he never had a chance to even hide it from himself.

Maybe it wasn’t that the Holmes’ brothers were calling him tedious for trying to cling to a secret that had already been discovered. Maybe it was just that they had seen what was already there before John had known.

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ,” John paced around the living room. He could hear his heartbeat over his steps. That couldn’t be true. He knew what attraction was. Hell, as withered as the emotion currently was, he also knew what love felt like. 

He would have known, he would have recognized it. He would have put a stop to it if he had any idea. Then John remembered how he had felt like an automaton for months. He had been living a half-life. Going to work, coming home to a wife he didn’t talk to, watching a movie that featured highly unrealistic exciting adventures, and then hopefully going to sleep before he could even try and ask for intimacy. 

When Sherlock came around, it was like he had been given air again. He was resuscitated, revived, renewed. He was a brand-new man who loved life and all of its strange quirks. He loved being on his feet again, listening to logical conclusions, he loved looking out for someone who was too above the world to watch where his feet were going, he loved Sh—

“Fucking shit,” John said softly to empty air. The room was too furnished for it to echo. Still, he felt like was speaking in a desolate cavern, where nothing but his own thoughts and words could fill the spaces. 

He sat back down on the sofa. When the world didn’t stop spinning, he put his head in his hands. 

John didn’t know how long he sat there. His mind was a maelstrom of piecemeal thoughts. Eventually, he picked up one shining truth out of the debris. 

He was in love with Sherlock Holmes.

John ran his hands down his face, and jerked in surprise when they encountered something wet. Which was strange, he didn’t remember crying, but there was a rawness in his throat that made it difficult to swallow. 

He felt far more fragile than he could remember. Not even when had been shipped from blinding sun and bullets, then back to fish and chips with football, had he ever felt so disoriented. He was pretty sure that if someone touched him just now, he would crack apart like fine china in the hands of a toddler.

Eventually, he stopped feeling thin and transparent. He moved to make some more tea. Possibly with a few shots of ‘Watson remedy’ in it.

As he waited for the kettle to boil, he tried the thought again. He was in love with Sherlock. It continued to hold strong. 

John deliberately kept his hands flat against the counter. He didn’t think his palms could take more digging from his nails. 

Right then. Now what?

That question continued to circle in his head as the water boiled. He filled his mug, waited for it to steep, and then added a glug or two of whiskey from a dusty bottle. He drank, and barely felt his tongue burn.

The mug was half empty by the time he pulled it away. An answer still eluded him. 

What was the right decision here? What the fuck could he do that would make this better?

“God, I don’t know, I don’t know,” John muttered helplessly. 

He moved from the kitchen to the living room. The back and forth was beginning to drive him nuts, but if he walked around outside, he was certain to draw attention. If he started muttering to himself, who knew what a passerby might overhear.

It was as he treaded a path into the carpet, that he stopped and looked out his window. He could see the side of Sherlock’s house, and all of the windows looked dark. 

John glanced at the clock. By now, Sherlock should be home. Maybe it would take him longer if he wasn’t able to find a ride. John immediately conjured up several scenarios where Sherlock could be endangered and alone, but he shoved them away. 

As he stared at the dark house, John wondered if the reason he was having such a hard time with this was because it wasn’t a decision he was meant to make alone. Perhaps he needed someone else’s help. And since it directly affected one other person, there was really only one other he could talk to. Especially since Mycroft had been less than helpful.

John tapped his fingers against the side of his thigh. No, that probably wasn’t a good idea. Given Sherlock’s insistence and near desperation, he would probably suggest that they immediately try to give ‘this’ a shot. Or maybe not. Maybe, if Sherlock was even half as serious as he seemed, he was adult enough to understand that forming a relationship wasn’t an option.

And it definitely wasn’t. John wasn’t going to cheat on his wife just because he had found someone else.

But Sherlock wasn’t just ‘someone else’. The thought curled around his mind. It nestled between all the cracks in his arguments and beliefs. Sherlock was, objectively, extraordinary. He wasn’t just some stranger John had glanced at on a bus. Sherlock was beyond the compare of anyone he had ever met. 

Still, that didn’t mean he was going to have an affair. He had the self-control and wherewithal to talk about his feelings without becoming impulsive. He could do this. He could talk things over with Sherlock without it delving into something deeper. They just needed to be open and honest with one another so they could begin to move on. 

John realized he was in front of Sherlock’s door when the dampness of the pavement began seeping into his socks. He looked down, and sure enough he was standing in his pajamas, late in the day, outside of a student’s house.

John was surprised that he had possessed enough sense to get his coat. The gloomy drizzle was already starting to clot into droplets in his hair. 

John breathed in through his nose, and raised his hand to knock. He could go back and get his shoes, in an attempt to look less ridiculous. His hand hovered in the air. But then, John was sure, he would find an excuse to avoid leaving his house for the rest of the day. 

There was no turning back now. His nerve had propelled him out the door, it could hold steady while he was sensible. 

John knocked twice, firm and loud. He rocked back and forth on his feet as they began to bite from the cold. There wasn’t an answer. 

“Dammit,” John muttered under his breath, “please be at home.” He didn’t think he had the stomach to try this again. “Of course, that’s a Watson for you,” he said bitterly to himself, “give me sniper fire in a barren desert over talking about my own--”

The door swung open. Sherlock stood halfway behind it like it was an overly long shield. He was clearly ready to slam it shut. 

He stared down silently like a judge who held the weight of John’s life in his hands. 

“Hi,” John cracked first, “It’s, uh, me.” He winced. 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I saw through the door viewer. Now why are, uh, you here,” he mocked.

John cleared his throat, “Can we talk? Inside?”

Sherlock didn’t move. John rubbed his wet hair, “Right then, I guess not.” He sucked in a deep breath, “Okay, well then--”

The door creaked when Sherlock opened it wider. “Since you insist on talking, I would rather do it without the draft.” 

“Oh! Right, of course,” John felt his spirits lift a little with hope. What he was hoping for, he wasn’t entirely sure. But not being turned away was a step, that he was certain of.

The house wasn’t much warmer than outside, but at least John wasn’t being coated in a film of water. He stomped on the floor, trying to get the circulation back in his toes. 

“So, did you make it back from school okay?” John nearly bit his own tongue. Was the whole evening going to be him embarrassing himself, before he even got on to the truly mortifying parts?

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “No, I clearly lost a limb.”

“Right, right, that was. That was a stupid question. Wait, hang on. How did you get back?”

“Surprisingly, I didn’t fall apart into an inconsolable Victorian heroine just because you weren’t there today.”

John winced again, this time from the acid dripping from Sherlock’s tone. “No, I mean, you aren’t dripping wet, and there’s no umbrella by the door, so you didn’t walk home.” 

Had it already happened? Had someone from his class offered him a ride? Was he too late? 

Too late for what? 

He blinked to reorient himself, and caught the last trace of a small smile on Sherlock’s face. John’s heart skipped. Apparently, using his brain was enough to briefly draw Sherlock out of a foul mood. 

“Ms. Hooper drove me home,” Sherlock explained. “She knew you normally do that, but since you were out ‘sick’,” he looked John over pointedly, “she did me the favor.”

John slowly seeped out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. Sherlock looked at him oddly, like he had done something unexpected.

“It’s something I rather hope to avoid repeating,” Sherlock said. Maybe it was John’s wishful thinking, but his tone sounded softer, “Her car reeked of cat urine. It likely has kidney failure and she keeps transporting it for veterinarian visits.” 

John blinked, he hadn’t even known Molly owned a cat. “Oh, well, that’s a shame.”

“John,” Sherlock said in a way that suggested his patience was at an end, “you didn’t come over here to talk about how I arrived home.”

John cleared his throat, “No--I didn’t.” He stood there for several more seconds, until he was able to fish up the bravery that brought him here in the first place. “The truth is, I thought that we could talk about…us.” 

Sherlock went very still. Since John wasn’t being punched or thrown out, he thought he might as well continue. “I mean, about what happened on the hill. It wasn’t—I mean, it certainly could have gone better. I should have--”

“Don’t,” Sherlock sliced through the jumbled knot of John’s words. “Just—stop, and get out.”

John gaped. He swallowed and tried again, “I really am trying to--”

“To make amends by saying you should have ‘let me down gently’,” Sherlock sneered around the words. “If you truly think that I’m upset because I wasn’t _coddled_ enough, then you are far more stupid than I could have imagined.”

“No, no that isn’t it at all!”

“Then what is it John? Why did you come here, if not to make yourself feel better? Why try to atone, if not for the sole reason that being less than the perfect role model is eating you alive inside?”

“Would you please just shut up for one bloody second!”

Sherlock’s mouth audibly snapped closed. He glared at John in a clear challenge to prove him wrong. 

John didn’t know how many more deep breaths he would need today, but he was surely depleting the world of its oxygen. “I didn’t come over here to try and make myself look like a saint. And I definitely didn’t come to start a fight with you.”

He ran a hand over his head, as if he could brush away all of his confusing thoughts to find the words that he needed to make this right. Three small words immediately sprang to mind, but John shoved those out of the way. Now was not the time for declarations, it was for apologies.

“I really did behave like a berk last night. And you deserve better than that. A lot better. Even if it’s worth nothing to you now, I’m sorry.” 

He let the words hang in the air. He could almost see them float, suspended by tenuous strings of humility. There was his apology out of the way. Now he had to bare his soul to a teenager that quite possibly hated the very ground he walked on.

Which had not been something he had thought of before rushing over here. What would Sherlock do if John suddenly confessed now? After he had dismissed Sherlock’s emotions, had accused him of being addled, and had compared his feelings to a previous disastrous scenario which had led him to a drug binge so bad he was nearly forced into rehabilitation.

If John was lucky, he would only have his teeth kicked out. 

He jerked when he realized Sherlock was talking to him, “—feels paltry, the sentiment is appreciated. But did you really come over here just to apologize?”

John’s heart froze, “Why do you ask?” Sherlock couldn’t possibly know his intentions already, could he? John had only just found out about his feelings. Had Sherlock known as soon as John had knocked on the door?

“John, please answer me honestly. I deserve that much. Why are you here?”

John could do this. It was what he had come over for in the first place. He was here to make amends. And the only true way to do that would be to admit that Sherlock was right. Then they could acknowledge it, agree no relationship could be formed, and move on. He just had to say it. He only had to get the words out.

They clung like tar to the back of his throat.

“I’m here—I’m here because--” the words fluttered and fell flat. “What you said, on the hill,” _it was all true_. That was all that he had to say. He only had to verify what Sherlock had known this whole time, and then they could begin to move forward. 

He only had to say the words.

John’s eyes stung. When he opened them, his vision was slightly blurred. He couldn’t quite make out Sherlock’s expression, but he was certain shock was mixed in there somewhere. He blinked and willed the wetness in his eyes away. He felt ridiculous. 

It was only a few simple words, why couldn’t he admit to them? How was saying them out loud so much more dreadful than coming to the conclusion in his own mind? 

Because he didn’t know for certain how Sherlock would react. Not anymore. Before the hill, John had been aware of Sherlock’s moods. He might have still been an enigma, but at least John could understand him for the most part. Now, when their relationship was so tumultuous, he had no idea how Sherlock would respond to his confession. 

He looked at Sherlock, tried to gauge his emotions, but all he saw was a young face waiting for an answer. Slowly, Sherlock’s expression began to soften before John’s eyes.

“John, whatever it is, you can say it here,” Sherlock encouraged. 

But for John, it was essentially too late. Now the situation that had supposedly plagued Sherlock for months was switched around. John had no indication if Sherlock’s feelings would be returned anymore. Or if he would still want to remain friends afterwards. All he had was hope. And that wasn’t enough to put him through this. Not if it meant that he would destroy whatever little was left of their companionship. 

Sherlock seemed to notice John withdrawing, as his expression shifted into concern. “John?” The teenager took a step closer.

It jolted John out of his haze. He flinched back, “I—nothing. There was nothing else, I just wanted to apologize. I’m sorry.”

He tried to leave, but Sherlock stepped in front of him. “You didn’t come out here to assuage your guilt, I’m sorry I accused you of that,” if John didn’t know him better, he would have called Sherlock’s voice desperate. “Please, tell me why you came here.”

And that should be enough to assure him, it really should. But suddenly John is plummeting down a pit with no footholds or bottom. All he can feel is an endless freefall that will only end messily. 

“I—maybe later,” John said, “I just, I can’t think right now. I have to leave. I’m sorry Sherlock,” and he darted for the exit before Sherlock could try and stop him.

He was running now. He could feel the wet grass and pavement under his feet. His gut was heavy and hard, like he had swallowed melted orbs of iron. Everything around him was such a blur, he didn’t even bother to check if neighbors were staring. 

What did it matter anyway? He had nearly confessed his love to a teenager, and then became a coward at the last second, while a seventeen-year-old had done the same thing only a night ago, but with no hesitation. John didn’t have any dignity to lose anymore.

Next time, he told himself as he opened his door. Surely next time, when he wasn’t running into things half-cocked, he could—

“John!” Mary shouted, clearly startled. “What in the—were you just out in the rain?”

Had it been raining? He turned around, and sure enough a downpour had replaced the small drizzle. Well, at least no one would have been looking out their windows with the gloomy overcast. 

“Are you alright? You don’t look so good,” Mary walked toward him, and then stopped. A strange expression fell over her face, like she was trying to be deliberately cold when she had only ever been indifferent. Then John remembered the events of last night, beyond the confession. 

Right, they weren’t speaking to one another. Well, more so than usual. 

He stood there in awkward silence as water dripped onto the floor. “I—uh—just went for a walk. Didn’t think it would get so bad.” 

He knew it was a stupid excuse. The look she gave him proved that. But since she didn’t want to accuse him of being mad, he got away with it. “I’ll just…go change,” the awkward words clattered like a thrown bundle of sticks. 

She let him by, and didn’t even bother to brush his arm in greeting or offer him a towel. It was just as well, John wasn’t sure he could take kindness just now. 

He had a long shower, because he needed it, and because he wanted to wash the day’s events off of him. He wanted this failure, a tally in a slowly growing set, to flow down the drain. His body was clean, but the memory of him losing his resolve and caving under possible rejection clung to his mind like grime. 

When he stepped out of the bathroom, Mary was waiting for him in the hall. She had a defensive posture, but she tried to make it more open. John, in return, didn’t immediately flee to the room that was now his and his alone. 

“So, I. I thought a lot about what you said, yesterday.”

John winced. A withered part of him berated him, and told him he should start apologizing. He began to, even while he felt exhausted and disillusioned with the idea. 

“Mary, I--”

“No, no. Let me finish,” she asked him. He sighed a bit, but nodded for her to continue.

“I’ve thought a lot about it today. And while my pride is…more than a little singed, I can’t help but feel like you had a point. We haven’t been talking. We barely even look at each other anymore. And I think it’s time we did something about that.”

John didn’t mean to, he really didn’t, but he could feel a sense of creeping dread down the back of his scalp. This should be good news. Hell, it objectively was good news. His wife was actively trying to regain whatever they had lost. But all John could think was that this did not sound good.

“What did you have in mind?”

She smiled a little hesitantly, “Well, one of my coworkers, Janine, got tickets to the London Medical Conference, but her date cancelled at the last second. I thought it would be a nice vacation. We can rent a separate room and stay a little longer than the conference days. We could see the sights, make ourselves into proper tourists. Except we actually know all of the good places to eat. What do you think?”

John could picture it. They hadn’t been to London in so long, and he missed the city. Missed its confusing roads, the Underground, the smell of kebabs and the packed with people pavements on Oxford. It would be nice to share that with Mary again. It could be like old times. Before he left, before he was shot, before they moved. 

Yet all he could think about, was how much he would want to bring Sherlock with him. He would want to take Sherlock to those same places, show him all of his favorite stops, and then sit back and laugh as Sherlock railed on about the banality of tourist shops. 

London was a city that was practically made for Sherlock. A place that he could map inside and out and still be surprised by it. Which would be something that John would love to be a part of. 

And John knew he wouldn’t be able to hide that. He had always been a terrible liar. And although they had grown distant, Mary would still be able to pick up that something was on his mind. Their vacation would become the weekend of her trying to uncover what he was hiding. 

John knew what his answer was. He hated it. He hated himself more than words could say. He felt like his insides had become rotted cabbage. Rubbery, twisted, and acidic. He still said, “No.” 

Mary blinked at him. Slowly, the shock morphed into anger, “What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“I just—I don’t think I can take a trip right now Mary. It was a good idea, really. But—I’m not sure a vacation is the best--”

Mary cuts him off with a vicious spew, “Bullshit. Utter bullshit.”

“Mary,” John tried, “I’m really sorry--”

“No. Fuck you, John. Thoroughly, and with vigor, fuck you.” 

John didn’t say anything. He didn’t rise to his defense, because there was nothing to defend. He was a bastard, and he deserved this. 

Rather than deescalating the argument, John’s reluctance to retort spurred Mary on. “I literally cannot believe you. You give me that whole mightier-than-thou, ‘I am a wounded saint that puts up with my recalcitrant wife’ act yesterday, and now you don’t even have the balls to _try_?”

“Look, I only thought, maybe it’s better if we stayed home instead of--”

“This is about Sherlock, isn’t it?”

John felt his world go dark and cold. “What?”

“You heard me, this is about the two of you, strutting about like great big peacocks. You might put up a face for the reporters, how you would much rather be living the quiet life, but it’s just the opposite isn’t it? You _love_ this attention. You _love_ being back in the forefront. You don’t want to leave because then you’ll remember just what kind of life you actually lead. What kind of life _we_ lead. Well then, far be it from me, your wife, to drag you away from stardom.” 

John had never cared about public opinion. He had never once thought of himself as someone who soaked up limelight. He was pretty sure that even Mary could tell how wrong that sounded. But this was a theory John would be happy to settle for. It was certainly better than the truth. 

He looked away, like he was ashamed at having been caught. Mary threw up her hands, and walked off. 

John stood there in the hallway, feeling increasingly awkward. He heard banging about upstairs, and thought Mary was tossing around something breakable and therapeutic. Then the banging traveled down the stairs, became a rolling sound, and moved into the bedroom. 

“Mary?” John hesitatingly called out. He didn’t necessarily think Mary would go for his throat, but he hadn’t seen her this mad since they had started dating. His response was more shuffling and banging of the drawers. 

He walked over to the bedroom, and saw her haphazardly stuffing a suitcase. “What are you doing?” John asked, although he had a fairly good idea.

“I am packing,” Mary pointed out as she threw in a few shirts, “for a lovely weekend away with my coworker and friend Janine. Both of our dates cancelled at the last second, so I’m sure she won’t mind a chance to get away from delusional people that would rather loiter about in some microscopic town that’s a few pens away from becoming a sheep village.”

Well, that proved John’s suspicion of permanent departure wrong. He was glad of that. Even if, much to his chagrin, he wasn’t sure why anymore. 

She zipped the suitcase closed, and John was pretty sure she hadn’t packed any pants. No force on Earth was going to get him to point that out right now. 

“I’ll be back on Monday. Maybe Tuesday, if the company is so much more preferable than here.”

John stepped to the side to let her pass him. He followed her up to the front door in silence. This was the time to start profusely apologizing, or to begin begging that she stay. He should be laying out all of the reasons why her going on a trip by herself was a bad idea. Why they should sort this out now, before she had the time to stew over it and let it fester.

If this were a normal fight, he would be doing all of those things. Especially the begging. But it wasn’t normal. All John could do, as he stared out into the pouring rain and ignored his wife’s watering eyes, was say, “I am so sorry Mary. Just…be safe.”

She looked at him, heartbroken. John knew he felt the same. But what should have been devastating to him was only sad. It was akin to an amputation that felt like a flesh wound. 

He knew he should make her stay. He wanted to fight for her. He wanted to return to when things had been simpler and the laughter had come easily, instead of this festering silence that turned into rot. 

But it was too late for that. It was a combination of knowing he was no longer good enough for her, and having found someone else. He had also already known for a while that he didn’t love Mary anymore. And he was pretty sure Mary felt the same. Relationships that had lasted far longer than theirs had ended for much less. 

Regardless, they both wanted a _reason_ to stay, and that was largely the problem. They had run out of reasons. 

“Goodbye John,” she told him. It sounded permanent. He wouldn’t be surprised if it was.

The door clicked shut behind her.

John turned around to look at the home he had tried to make with his wife. It looked like a hollow shell. The furniture, art, the countless things that they had collected over the years, all of it looked as sterile and impersonal as a museum.

The exhibit would be called, ‘The Artifacts of a Failed Marriage’. John tried to smile at the thought. It didn’t work.

Even though he hadn’t done anything of real physical effort, he still felt like he had been dragged over several miles of rocks. Distantly, he heard Mary’s car engine start up, followed shortly by it tearing off down the street. 

Perhaps he would send her a text later to make sure she had made it to Janine’s. He thought better of it. She would probably drive back just to shove the phone down his throat. 

John looked at the clock, and decided that ten at night on a Friday was a reasonable enough time to go to sleep. He certainly didn’t have the energy to remain awake anymore. The pain in his leg was nearly unbearable as he limped to bed.

Mary’s side of the bed was clay cold. He tried not to roll onto it all night.

When he woke up, he thought he had beaten the dawn from how dark his room was. A look at his clock told him he had slept well into noon. He was going to spoil himself this way. 

Then again, sleeping in this late felt less like an indulgence and more like his mind couldn’t cope with his waking hours anymore. He didn’t blame it. John certainly didn’t feel like facing today either. 

At least he didn’t have to worry about calling in for a second time. He was sure Molly wouldn’t mind, but his paycheck would. He was also certain his employers wouldn’t look sympathetically on it either, mentor to the town genius or no. 

When John couldn’t put off getting out of bed anymore, he pattered about the house like he was on autopilot. The pain in his leg from last night seemed to be gone, and he pondered on the reason. Either he was in mild shock and the realization that his marriage could be well and truly over hadn’t caught up to his psychosis, or what he had mistaken for crushing shame was more like cathartic relief. 

His and Mary’s relationship coming to ruins was such a long time coming, that having it out in the open had shunted all of the stress into his leg. Now that he had slept it off, it was no longer a weight for him to bear. It seemed as good a reason as any.

John ended up in his favorite armchair, holding a mug of tea that he didn’t remember making. 

The sound of his own sipping seemed impossibly loud. He turned on the television to drown it out. He saw images and headlines flash across his screen, but he couldn’t seem to take any of it in. It rolled over his thoughts like drops of water. He turned it off and the sound of crackling static prickled over his skin.

He wondered where Mary was. Maybe she was already on the train to London, or Janine and her were getting a lunch after a long night of tears and frustrated conversation. He wondered how well Janine would take to Mary raving emphatically before she switched to uncontrollable bawling. Then going back and forth between the two until she exhausted herself. John remembered what she was like when she got well and truly upset. 

Then again, maybe Janine would be perfectly fine with it. Maybe they were firmer friends than John knew. He had only heard Mary talk about her once or twice, but that meant nothing. For all he knew, she could be like a sister to Mary. 

It surprised him, how little he knew about his wife’s outside life. What also caught him by surprise was how little he truly cared.

John sighed and closed his eyes. He already knew he was an arse, but he was slowly beginning to see that it wasn’t a recent development.

Well, John was tired of self-deprecation for now. He was going to enjoy himself or choke on the effort.

He got up from his comfortable chair, and pulled down a novel that he had always meant to read but never had the time for. Now, with no real obligations outside of whatever he decided, he was free to do what he liked. 

He was about twenty pages into his book when he realized he had not absorbed a single word. He blinked out of his haze, and went back to the first page to start again. Once more, he couldn’t retain a sentence.

That was fine, John told himself. He didn’t need to read the book right this second. He had plenty of time. He had an abundance of it, all by himself.

John stopped bouncing his foot against the floor when he eventually heard it. He resisted the urge to kick at the coffee table out of frustration. This was completely ridiculous. He had gone less than sixteen hours without Mary in the house, and all he could do was pretend to read or watch television.

What was the point of trying to do any of those things anyway? It wasn’t what John wanted in the first place. He jolted when the truest and most naked thought of all bared itself.

All he wanted to do was to go to Sherlock.

All he wanted was to tell him what had happened. He wanted to confess, well and truly, minus the magnificent disaster of yesterday. He wanted to tell Sherlock that he had been right all along, and that John didn’t want to hide from himself anymore. 

He wanted to be near him. He wanted to hold him, and touch him. The fact rumbled through his body, and he shot up from his chair like it electrocuted him. John didn’t have any thoughts of propriety or ‘right timing’. He didn’t consider the time of day or whether Sherlock would be receptive.

He would deal with that as it came. Right now, he needed to see Sherlock.

He swung open his own door with so much force that it banged shut behind him. He ran so fast and so preoccupied with his own thoughts, that the thunder rumbled straight above him a second time before he realized it was downpouring. The fact that the dark clouds and sheets of rain made for excellent cover was a distant thought.

John knocked on the front door, only because the handle didn’t turn over when he’d tried it. Silently, he hoped Sherlock would appear soon. He didn’t want time to deliberate his choices. He needed this like he needed salve to a fresh burn.

The door still didn’t open. John tried the door knob again, because desperation had taken place of his decorum. It turned under his hand from the other side. It swung open, and John was left to stare up at a bewildered young man. The angle made rain drops fall into John’s eyes. He barely blinked them away. 

He didn’t want to lose focus on Sherlock. He didn’t want to look away for a moment. Even if this ended in rejection, he wanted to remember every expression he might possess, if this was to be the last night they would see each other.

“John?” Sherlock questioned. It wasn’t harsh and cold like earlier, it was hesitant. Like he was holding on to a tentative thread of hope, and it might snap in his grip. “What are you--”

“I love you.”

Three words that had taken so long to say. John said them quickly, so they wouldn’t tangle and knot like they had earlier. Now that it was out in the open, he saw no reason to hold back.

“It’s stupid of me, I know. It’s utterly fucking mad. You’re so—and I’m just--. Not to mention the school, and the age difference, and the rest of it. But I love you. There’s no helping it, I’m over the goddamn moon for you. All I can think about is seeing you again. Whenever you talk it feels like you’re giving me a privilege. The fact that you wanted to be my friend was astonishing, more than that, it was downright unbelievable. And I know, I _know_ , I’ve been an incredible arsehole to you. And if you never wanted to see me again because of that, that’s fine, but I can’t stand this—this not knowing. I can’t take this bloody hesitancy anymore. And I’m pretty sure this is the most honest I’ve ever been and the most soul-bearing I’ve ever done so if you could say something before I lose my goddamned mind I would really--”

John really had no one to blame but himself, as he was standing on the lower step when Sherlock was already so ridiculously tall. He had to be pulled up by his soaked shirt to meet the clumsy but desperate mouth of a genius. 

John surged up and up and up to meet those lips. He followed them inside, where it was warm and dry. Although the surroundings were becoming something distant and unnecessary. He was too focused on the distractingly warm body in front of him. 

John was pulled past the threshold, and he clung to Sherlock’s shirt to be sure they didn’t lose their closeness. The door was shut by one of them, turning the rain and the outside world into a forgotten backdrop.

With a frustrated huff of breath, Sherlock pulled away first. John was about to rectify that, but realized Sherlock’s intentions were to get his own shoes off. 

He had a brief moment to wonder why Sherlock was wearing shoes indoors in his own house. John lost the thought when he laughed at the sight of a fumbling boy too impatient with his own emotions to bother with the finesse of removing his footwear. When Sherlock was done, he looked up, and John’s snickers cut off.

Sherlock was coiled with eagerness. They met in the middle, a collision of untapped energy melting together to form a burning star. There wasn’t much John could do except to ride the solar waves and lose himself to the void. 

He remembered to breathe, and when he pulled back, he found himself pressed up against the wall. His soaked clothes clung clammily to his skin. When Sherlock moved away, a damp patch could clearly be seen on his shirt. John’s first thought was, ‘That must be cold’. His second was, ‘He should get out of those clothes.’ 

His hands steadily undid the buttons before John had finished the thought. Sherlock didn’t move to help him. He kept his hands on either side of John’s head, like he was afraid John would duck away at any moment. 

John started to shove the shirt off of Sherlock’s shoulders, but the contrast of his cooled skin against Sherlock’s warm chest proved too much to bear. John was being kissed again, and this time he could feel Sherlock’s heartbeat keeping time with his own rapid tempo.

John moved his hands from Sherlock’s chest, to his shoulders, and to finally wrap around Sherlock’s neck to draw him closer. Soon John’s skin warmed to Sherlock’s body heat. This close, John could smell something like spearmint. He wondered if it was the shampoo Sherlock used or just his natural smell.

Then Sherlock nipped at John’s lips, and he stopped speculating. Sherlock occasionally licked at the raindrops that clung to John’s face, like he needed them to quench something. 

Sherlock’s kisses swiftly became frantic, and the nips turned to biting in a clumsy mixture of deliberate and accidental. 

“Easy, easy,” John murmured. Sherlock’s whole being was alight with energy. John didn’t want him to burn out before they’d even started. 

Sherlock huffed an annoyed breath, “I have done this before you know.”

John squeezed Sherlock’s arms in reassurance. “I know, but you don’t have to rush.” He saw something soften in Sherlock’s expression. 

The boy tilted his head back down, no longer trying to devour John, but to savor. Their lips were a merging, not a collision. They both swayed in their feelings instead of whirling in them. When John pulled back to breathe, he felt Sherlock’s heart had slowed into something steadier.

He felt a smug pleasure in how labored Sherlock’s breaths had become. “See? Slow isn’t so--”

John choked off his words when Sherlock moved immediately for the crux of his neck and shoulder. Whether Sherlock had figured out that was one of John’s sensitive spots, or if it was just a lucky guess, John didn’t bother to wonder. He curled his hands into Sherlock’s curls for something to hold onto. Sherlock’s hair clung to John’s wet fingers like sentient calligraphy ink. Sherlock hummed with delight and nibbled, apparently not bothered when John tightened his grip.

In revenge, John slid his hands from Sherlock’s nape to his nipples, and rubbed his thumbs over the little points. Sherlock shivered against him, unable to continue teasing John as he succumbed to sensation. John smirked and kept one set of fingers plucking and pressing, while he slid his other hand to the front of Sherlock’s jeans. 

That snapped the teen out of his haze. His hands roamed and squeezed over John’s arms, hips, and back. He reached down to squeeze John’s arse, and the doctor arched in response with a startled yelp. 

Sherlock dragged his lips up John’s neck and nipped his lobe in amusement. John reached around to scratch his nails down that pale back. He shivered when Sherlock growled in his ear. 

John tried to push him back for some space, but Sherlock didn’t budge. “Bedroom,” John elaborately explained, but Sherlock only squeezed him closer. He seemed fascinated with being able to touch, and didn’t want to stop.

“Come on,” John encouraged as he soothed his hands over the marks on Sherlock’s back. “Horizontal surfaces are much more helpful.” He kissed at Sherlock’s neck, and smiled to himself when he felt a shudder run through the young man’s body.

Slowly, Sherlock started to move in the direction of the bedroom, but he didn’t allow for much space between their bodies. It was an awkward trip up the stairs. The way they shuffled together, alternately licking or kissing at every new piece of skin as they slowly shed their clothes, should have made John laugh with the ridiculous picture they must have made.

Instead, he felt a rare warmth suffuse him, permeating every shift of his body until John was certain he glowed with contentment. He felt playful and aroused, but more than anything, he felt adored. 

He pulled Sherlock down for another deep kiss. It felt selfish not to share his bliss in some way.

John was so sufficiently distracted that he didn’t notice how far they had come until the backs of his knees softly hit the bed. Sherlock had him fall the rest of the way with one gentle shove to his shoulder. 

Laughter burst out of John as his back hit the blankets. It wasn’t as if he found being shoved around particularly funny, but it was like something had come loose in the short fall, so that it could rise up like champagne bubbles and escape through mirth. His laughter stopped short at the sight of Sherlock naked and standing over him. 

He would have thought Sherlock would be like any other teenager being seen naked by a new lover, awkward and self-conscious. It was as if Sherlock didn’t have the time to be worried about himself. He was too focused on John, as his eyes never strayed away when he slowly lowered himself down. 

Sherlock hovered inches above John’s exposed skin. John could feel the space in between spark with potential. He wasn’t sure if his hand had a tremor, but he felt like every part of him was shaking as he reached up to cup Sherlock’s face. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. Somehow, John knew he was committing this exact moment to memory. There was going to be a part of that monumental brain that would be dedicated to preserving this exact second in all of its perfection. 

John’s thumb traced over a plump bottom lip, and he cleared his throat even though he hated to break the moment. “How, uh, how should we do this?”

Sherlock slowly blinked his eyes open as he processed the words. He tilted his head to consider, and abruptly sat up to look down at John. 

John’s lungs compressed with a sudden loss of air when he felt the new contact. Sherlock was smooth, almost surprisingly so for someone his age. But then again, if everything else about him was exceptional, Nature wouldn’t dare to give him acne.

“Could I penetrate you?” Sherlock asked. By the tone, it seemed like he wouldn’t care one way or the other, but John saw the way his eyes went dark with the suggestion, and those pale hands hadn’t stopped roaming over every bit of bare skin it could reach.

The idea sucked a lot of air from John’s lungs. Even when he and Mary had tried to be ‘experimental’, neither of them had really been adventurous enough for that. The idea made his heart beat a little faster. His nerves tried to come up with an excuse, but he refused to be cowardly anymore. 

This was a special night, and John would gladly do this if it meant atoning for his actions. Besides, based on Sherlock’s stories, he wasn’t in the hands of someone inexperienced. His toes curled a little at the thought.

Sherlock took John’s pause as a negative sign, “I don’t have to,” he hastily said. He leaned down and began to kiss John’s face to soothe a worry that wasn’t there. “There are loads of things we can do instead, I’m sorry I--”

“Yes,” John said. He gently lifted his hands to cover Sherlock’s, which were currently cradling John’s face. He brought up one palm and kissed the center of it. He looked into Sherlock’s eyes, and saw a mixture of shock and adoration.

It struck John then, how deeply Sherlock must feel for him. He couldn’t ever know, not really, but it was impossible to deny Sherlock’s affection when he was literally staring it in the eyes. For this incredible creature to look at _John_ like he was the thing that was precious, made him feel like he could climb Mount Kilimanjaro in a day. 

Sherlock leaned down for another kiss, but John teasingly pulled away at the last second. 

Sherlock swiftly followed, and finally lowered himself entirely onto John’s body. They both jolted at the sensation of rubbing against every erogenous zone and hot flesh meeting each other. John arched up to meet him for a kiss, and this one was far more languid than their frenzied ones in the hallway. 

John spread his legs so Sherlock could rest between them. Sherlock accepted the invitation. Slowly, he made his way down John’s skin, kissing and licking like he was trying to mark John with his lips and tongue. John’s hips swiveled when Sherlock dipped his tongue into his navel. He arched far enough that Sherlock pressed him down as he licked the dent of flesh between his groin and his thigh. 

“Fuck,” John cursed as he pulled at his own hair to avoid pulling at Sherlock’s. Sherlock licked a wet stripe from the tip of his prick to his balls. 

“Jesus!” John couldn’t stop the shout. 

“Alright?” Sherlock asked cheekily. He didn’t even look up, but John could tell he was smirking from the movement of those lips against his cock. John wasn’t sure he could handle much more of this, and they had barely even started.

He made some strangled sound that Sherlock took as a reassurance. Then John’s dick was enveloped in a warm and wet heat. John didn’t shout this time, because the air had left his lungs. He gripped the sheets for dear life, and that reminded him that he was surrounded in Sherlock’s scent. He was writhing in a place that was completely overtaken by Sherlock’s presence. He wasn’t an intruder, but a welcome guest that was being enveloped by spearmint and linen.

Sherlock licked at the head of John’s cock as he sucked at the same time. John slapped his hands on the mattress to ground himself. “Fuck,” the word was drawn out in a breathy whine. He wondered where this was coming from. He had never made these sounds before in his life. They were spilling forth like his self-control had fissures where they could hiss free. 

Not once had he ever been this vocal with—John shoved away that thought before it could fully form. Not here. Not now. 

Sherlock’s hands moved to try and spread John’s thighs wider. John complied, although he felt nervousness squirm inside of his heart. 

Sherlock’s hands rubbed over the sensitive skin, so perhaps he sensed John’s tension. Or he just wanted to feel John’s muscles tremble under his touch. 

John felt Sherlock’s tongue travel from the tip of his cock, down to his balls, and then he went lower. Shock opened John’s eyes when he hadn’t even known they were closed. “Sherlock?” John called out questioningly.

Sherlock’s response was to lift John’s legs so they rested on his shoulders. He nipped at the inside of John’s thigh, and then traveled straight over to John’s hole. Without warning, he licked and kissed at the sensitive skin. John dug his heels into Sherlock’s back, forgetting that he was wanted to be careful.

John couldn’t hear himself anymore, and he didn’t have the ability to be self-conscious about the noises if he could. All he could feel was hot and tingling jolts, which slowly transformed to feeling slick and wet. 

John’s nipples ached in the cool air. He couldn’t let his hands simply grip sheets anymore. One plucked and rubbed at a hard nub, the other traveled down to his cock, which was twitching against his belly.

He gave himself a few strokes, something to focus on other than Sherlock’s tongue prodding and swiping across his arsehole. A voice babbled in the back of his mind that he should tell Sherlock to stop doing this, that it was filthy and maybe a bit too much for a first time. But then he felt Sherlock’s soft lips leaving tender kisses on the puckered skin, and the protest quickly faded. 

Pleasure rose around John like a tide. He prepared himself to hold his breath and ride the wave, but Sherlock pulled his hand away before he could crest. 

“No, not yet,” Sherlock requested. John couldn’t really say no to him anyway.

John gulped for air and tried to moisten his parched mouth. “Alright, alright,” John said. He moved his hand back to his side to clutch at the sheets while the other moved from his nipple to his hair. He pulled at the strands to ground himself. 

He felt Sherlock shift around, and thought he was going to go back to driving John mad. Instead, he said something a bit more insistently, because John hadn’t heard him the first time. 

“This is all very flattering, but could you please get the lubricant before I rupture something from restraint? It’s in the nightstand drawer.”

John blinked, and moved quicker than he thought he was currently capable of. “Why didn’t you get it?” John belatedly asked, as he had already yanked open the drawer.

“You were closer,” was Sherlock’s explanation. John wouldn’t necessarily call him lazy, but he certainly didn’t expend effort unless he had to. He didn’t complain though. Apparently, getting the best foreplay in the world was something Sherlock considered necessary. 

The bottle was close to brand new, but there was clearly some lubricant missing. John grinned at Sherlock as he gently tossed it down to him, “I guess not even your brain can stop teenage hormones.”

“We should consider ourselves lucky then,” Sherlock retorted. He tapped at John’s hip. 

When the indication struck him, John felt his nerves tangle in knots all over again. He rolled onto his stomach anyway. 

The pleasurable buzz in his veins had evaporated. Once again, John was a potent mixture of anticipation and nervousness. Sherlock’s hands ran over his backside, not in an erotic caress, but a comforting one.

“We don’t have to do this,” Sherlock said softly, “we can do other things, like I mentioned. As long as--” Sherlock cut himself off. 

John turned his head to try and look at Sherlock’s face. He could only see a portion of it, and it seemed to be getting pinker. 

“As long as,” Sherlock tried again, “as long as it’s with you, we can do anything you like.” He was going well into crimson now.

John felt a sympathetic blush on his own face. He knew that what Sherlock was saying was true. He could say he would rather just lie there and cuddle, and Sherlock would agree. He would probably emphatically voice his complaints, but he would agree.

The need that had become dormant in him sparked back to life. He nuzzled his face into the pillow, unable to see Sherlock’s reaction when he spread his legs a little wider. John heard a quick intake of breath, which made him flush darker.

There was the pop of a bottle being opened, and then the rather ridiculous sound of a viscous fluid being pushed out of a tube. John nearly laughed at that, but he jolted instead when he felt a slick and bony finger pressing against his hole. 

It pushed inward. John inhaled and exhaled deeply. If his breaths came out a little shaky, Sherlock was kind enough not to ask if he was alright. Slowly, Sherlock thrusted the singular digit in and out. 

Gradually, what John had focused on as just a thing inside of his arsehole became more enjoyable. He could feel each hard bump of Sherlock’s knuckles as they moved in and out of him. The lube was being spread inside of him, which reassured John that he was being thoroughly prepared. And then he remembered what he was being prepared _for_ , and John’s breath constricted in his chest out of eagerness instead of fear.

Each addition of a finger amplified the sensations. Sherlock pressed his free hand down on John’s hip to keep him still. John hadn’t realized he had been squirming against the mattress. 

God, he had teased Sherlock about insatiable teenage lust, but where was John’s supposed self-control now? 

John had lost track of how many fingers were inside of him, and how long they had been thrusting in and out of him. All he could feel was slick and sensitized.

“God, Sherlock,” John groaned. “Hurry up,” it was as much a demand as it was a plead. If Sherlock didn’t progress soon, John was going to come. Either from the stimulation of his prick against the soft sheets, or the maddening rubbing against his prostate. The method didn’t really matter to him.

The fingers stopped moving. John heard soft but passionate swearing above his head. He felt Sherlock’s forehead, hot and sticky with sweat, press against the back of his shoulder.

“I don’t--” Sherlock admitted haltingly, “I never saw the need to have--”

“Fuck’s sake,” John cursed into the pillow. It took him less than two seconds to come to a decision. “Were you tested during your rehab?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answered immediately. “I was given antibiotics, I’m clean now. John, you don’t have to--”

“If you say that one more time I might very well slap you,” John promised. He raised himself up on his hands and knees. “Go on then, but after this we are buying an entire pack of--”

John’s words morphed into a surprised moan. One second Sherlock’s fingers pulled out with careful efficiency, and the next he could feel the head of Sherlock’s dick pressing against his hole.

It was blood hot, much warmer than Sherlock’s fingers. The tip was blunt and round enough that John briefly wondered if this was going to be feasible. But Sherlock had prepped him thoroughly. It slid in with very little resistance. It was only the startled clench of John’s body that kept it from smoothly gliding in. 

“Fuck,” John gasped out. Feeling himself spasm around something firm and warm made a stubborn knot unravel in John’s stomach. Sherlock’s hands suddenly grabbed hold of John’s hips. As if John had plans to move anywhere. Judging from the harsh panting that was out of pace with John’s, it was more that Sherlock had needed something to cling to. 

John breathed deeply, which soothed out his sensitivity so it wasn’t as encompassing. “Okay, go,” John said. There was no hesitation in his voice. Little by little, Sherlock eased himself inside. 

It was like John was being reintroduced to penetration with every inch. Places inside of him that had been slicked with lube were now being pushed and stretched in a way that made John keen. 

He knew it was the end when he could feel prickly pubic hair. The crystal-clear memory of Sherlock’s cock, and the knowledge that all of it was now buried inside of him, made hot flashes run up and down John’s skin. 

He felt Sherlock’s fingers tremble against his hip bones. If he focused hard enough, John was certain that he could feel Sherlock’s heartbeat in the pulse of the prick inside of him. 

Rather than try and find the breath for words, John arched himself to bump into Sherlock’s stomach. A groan resounded above him, and the fingers spasmed. John tried again. He bent his body downward and felt hot flesh ease out of him, before he slammed himself back up onto Sherlock’s dick. 

A strangled yell was pulled from John’s lips. Sherlock finally caught on, which turned out to be both a blessing and a curse. It meant the need coiling inside of him was finally being satiated. It also meant that John could no longer think beyond his own body. 

He couldn’t comprehend past heat and hardness, past movement and moans. The air nearly choked him with the unmistakable scent of their combined sweat. John had fallen forward, with his face buried in a forearm. He reached behind himself. They were both as close as they could possibly be, but he was suddenly seized by ‘not enough’ and ‘more’. 

John grabbed a wrist that was still holding onto his hip, and pulled it up and up until Sherlock was forced to lay flush against his back. He felt better then. Cloistered, hot, and uncomfortably sweaty, but he still felt infinitely better than being alone in a prison of pleasure. 

He shifted Sherlock’s hand farther up, until he could look at it and lace their fingers together. He admired the difference in size. Sherlock’s fingers were long and pale, while his were short and weathered with callouses. It spoke of their different experiences. One who was still so young but so hurt by the world, and another who had been ground down by human horrors. Neither of them were done with life just yet. 

John wanted to share whatever experiences came next with Sherlock. 

Since John rarely indulged in sentimental statements, even while fully rational, he decided to communicate his thoughts the best way he knew how. 

John trapped one of those long fingers in his lips, and sucked as hard as he could. A rush of hot air blew along the back of his neck. “More,” John growled, because he could communicate this way too, “harder.”

“Fuck,” Sherlock whispered in strangled adoration, “fuck.” 

It made veins of smugness run through John’s pleasure, that no matter what sexual encounters Sherlock had in the past, he was clearly erasing them from his mind. 

Then Sherlock obeyed his request, and John went back to groaning mindlessly into the bedsheets. It was hard for him to get the angle right, since John was practically holding him down against his back. But it didn’t particularly matter that he wasn’t hitting his prostate with every thrust. The action, the visceral knowledge that Sherlock was inside of him and falling to pieces on top of him, was more than enough. 

John slid his free hand down to his cock. He took it in hand, and it felt like an electric current. He couldn’t remember being this eager and hard before. He stroked once, twice, and felt everything below his navel tense in anticipation. 

“Go on,” Sherlock encouraged as he continued to thrust, “I want to feel you.”

That was it. John orgasmed with all of the intensity of a sudden punch to his gut. 

It was being drawn out of him, from his testicles and all the way up to his neck. Hot and white strings of come spilled onto the sheets. John shuddered, and he made a sound to indicate he was being butchered alive and ascending to a higher plane at the same time. 

Then he heard Sherlock choke on words, and the grip on his hand became strong enough that John seriously wondered if he would have to worry about broken fingers. He felt Sherlock’s cock jump inside of him, which made John twitch. Wet heat filled him in unreached places. John shivered at the illicit invasion.

Sherlock breathed out like he had forgotten that he could. Then he stopped holding his weight up. 

“Oof,” John pointedly said. “Could you roll over please?”

“Can’t,” Sherlock murmured into John’s shoulder, “I’ve lost motor function in my everywhere.”

John snorted even though it costed him precious lung capacity. He knew Sherlock really was out of sorts if he was using cobbled grammar. “All right, but you brought this on yourself.” 

John rolled over, despite Sherlock’s semi-desperate clinging and drawn out whine of protest. “Stuff it,” John warned, “you may have lost motor function, but I was lying in my own spunk and losing the ability to breathe. You can slowly suffocate me some other time.”

“Only if we use a belt,” Sherlock replied as he shuffled around to get comfortable. 

John’s thoughts, slow as they were, still screeched to a halt. 

“I’m kidding,” Sherlock assured him, “I would only do that if you asked nicely.”

“Oh my god.” 

“Honestly, I would prefer satin rope, much less abrasive. You don’t want that obvious of a mark if we do--”

“Please, please stop talking. I’m still processing us having spectacular sex the one time, I do not need fetishes piled on top.”

There was blessed silence from the other half of the bed. Then Sherlock moved closer so he could drape his arm over John’s torso. There was a small kiss to John’s ear, and then a whispered, “Spectacular?”

John smiled, even though he didn’t think Sherlock entirely deserved to see it for taking the piss. He laced his fingers through Sherlock’s again, and kissed the back of a pale hand. 

“Go to sleep,” John murmured, already being drawn down into slumber. He hoped Sherlock wouldn’t mind his lack of stamina. Sherlock squeezed him closer, and pressed soft kisses into his neck until John went to sleep. John decided Sherlock didn’t really care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Bing Bong* Attention passengers, this is your writer speaking. You will notice that the 'Fasten your Seatbelt' sign has been lit. This is your first and only warning for those who have lost their way and thought this would be a cute fanfiction. You may now exit the story via a complimentary parachute called the back button. For the rest, enjoy your stay and kiss your fluff feelings goodbye. *Bing Bong*


End file.
